The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Is that the car?’ Jo demands once more, nodding towards the main crater, where there isn’t even a car in view.

  Davidson’s gaze darts to Neil and myself once more before he focuses back on Jo. ‘Can we have a word in private?’ he asks.

  ‘Anything you’ve got to say, you can say in front of them.’

  Davidson is unflustered, though he pauses for a moment, perhaps choosing his words. He doesn’t send us away and, as Neil edges through the fence, I follow his lead until the four of us are huddled in a circle. The uniformed officer has disappeared. Davidson opens his mouth but, at that moment, the whine of the crane begins once more. We stop and watch as the cranking mechanism grinds and then a car appears over the precipice of the gully. It would have originally been a dark hatchback, but it’s now caked with sand and dust. The windscreen has a large splintering crack in the centre and it doesn’t look like there’s any glass in the rear window. There isn’t a number plate on the back and all four tyres are flat. The crane slowly swings the car around until depositing it with a thump onto a patch of land that’s obscured by the main cabin of the crane itself.

  ‘Whose car is it?’ Jo asks, trying to peer around Davidson towards the car. ‘I want to know who hit my son.’

  ‘There’s no specific reason to believe this vehicle belongs to whoever hit your son,’ Davidson replies calmly.

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘We received a report overnight that there was a car in the quarry. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘But why are you here?’

  ‘Because we’re not ruling anything out, or in, Mrs Ashworth. We’re determined to find whoever it was that was driving the car that hit your son. That means following up any leads – including this one.’

  Jo opens her mouth, but then closes it again.

  It’s Neil who speaks next, seemingly to the surprise of everyone, including me. He’s not said anything since Jo specifically told me to ‘sit in the front’ when we were leaving her house. ‘Don’t you recognise the car…?’ Neil says.

  He’s watching Jo, but it’s Davidson who reacts, turning towards the crane and the hidden vehicle beyond.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Davidson asks.

  ‘I know whose car it is.’

  Jo stares open-mouthed at him, while Davidson has the fixed frown of a man who doesn’t like to be a step behind.

  ‘It’s that guy who lives down the road from Holly,’ Neil says. ‘He’s always revving and racing up and down the street. Stephen-something. I don’t know his last name. Didn’t Holly complain about him to the police once? He almost hit Petey about a year ago…?’

  Nobody speaks as Neil turns between us as if everyone else is somehow stupid for not seeing what he does.

  ‘It’s got that thin red racing stripe,’ he adds. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  I watch Jo’s face as it creases into one of furious recollection. Hell yes, she remembers. She turns and starts off towards the fence.

  Davidson is a little slow off the mark, calling ‘Mrs Ashworth’ after her but being ignored. I tuck in next to Neil as we hurry after Jo, catching her only as she gets to the driver’s side of her car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Neil asks.

  Jo doesn’t reply. She gets into the car and thumps the door closed. As the engine starts, Neil and I bundle in just in time before she slams it into reverse.

  ‘Jo?’ Neil tries again.

  The car spins in a half circle and then Jo smacks the gearstick into first and, almost instantly, second as we heave away with a spray of gravel.

  ‘Where do you think we’re going?’ she spits.

  Neil doesn’t respond, but the pair of us both turn in unison, watching through the back window towards Sergeant Davidson. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, betraying a barely concealed frustration.

  Eighteen

  Jo is driving even faster back to Elwood than she did on the way to the quarry. She slaloms across lanes and I only allow myself to breathe once we’re back on the correct side. For someone railing against dangerous driving, this is perhaps the worst example.

  As we pass the ‘Welcome to Elwood, Please Drive Carefully’ sign, she does finally ease off the accelerator. I release my desperate grip on the seat and check the back window, half expecting us to be trailed by a police car, though the road is clear.

  Jo passes the bus stop and takes the turn onto the street on which Ethan was hit. I keep thinking of the flowers and footballs as a memorial, even though he hasn’t died. I wondered if it was there because people thought he had died – but it’s been growing steadily since Tuesday night. I’m not sure I understand it.

  As Jo slows further, we see a woman clambering out of a car with a red and white football scarf in hand. She ties it around the lamp post next to the others, and then pauses for a moment to take in the rest of what’s been left.

  Jo stops the car, too, taking it out of gear and idling in the middle of the road on the spot that must be almost exactly where I saw the vehicle stop after hitting Ethan. Jo strains against her seat belt, looking sideways through the window towards the tributes for her son. As well as what was there previously, a giant soft bear has appeared, decked out in more red and white.

  In the park beyond, a group of people are in the process of setting up a large marquee somewhere near to the scorch marks from the impromptu bonfire. I wonder what’s going on, but then remember the poster I saw for Saturday’s Elwood Summer Fete. It’s two days away and it feels strange that life will be continuing as normal at a time when it feels anything but.

  Jo starts the car again and eases away, heading past Dad’s house and continuing on to the newer, more expensive part of town. I recognise the turn onto the road on which Holly lives, but Jo pulls in before then.

  ‘Which house?’ she asks, twisting against the seat belt to look at Neil in the back seat.

  ‘I’m not sure if this is a good idea,’ he replies – the first thing he’s said since we left the quarry.

  ‘I didn’t ask if you thought it was a good idea,’ Jo says, barely concealing a fury that’s been bubbling. ‘Which house?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Jo stares back, as if daring him to admit it’s a lie. When he doesn’t, she gets out of the car, slams the door and then starts off along the street at a sprinter’s pace. The only reason I catch up with her is because Holly takes her time in answering the front door.

  When Holly appears, she’s barefooted in lounge pants and a vest. She looks between Jo and me, bemused by our presence.

  ‘What’s—’ she starts, but Jo talks over her.

  ‘Where does Stephen live?’ she demands.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who almost ran over Petey last year.’

  Holly quickly glances to me, but there’s little I can add. ‘Number seven,’ she says.

  Jo doesn’t wait for any more information, spinning and setting off on a charge back the way we came, to where Neil is leaning against the car. She storms past him, leaving Neil, Holly and myself all trailing as Jo homes in on the front door of number seven and then thumps it with her fist.

  There’s a nervy moment as we catch up with her and the four of us wait on the doorstep. I find myself looking along the street, hoping Sergeant Davidson or someone else from the police will be arriving to stop whatever’s about to happen. If not that, then it would be great if number seven is empty. Nothing good is going to happen here.

  A bang comes from inside the house and, just as Jo is about to knock a second time, the door swings open to reveal a bemused-looking young woman who turns between us.

  ‘Hello…?’ she says.

  ‘Where’s Stephen?’ Jo demands.

  The woman takes a step inside, slightly closing the door as she turns backwards. ‘It’s for you!’

  The door closes until it’s a crack. Jo angles forward and, for a moment, I think she’s about to kick the door open and barge inside. Holly tenses ne
xt to me and she must feel it, too.

  The man who appears in the door is not what I’d expected. I’d been thinking a young boy racer; the sort whose awful dance music booms through a neighbourhood every time he turns the ignition in his souped-up dickheadmobile. I thought the woman who answered the door would be a girlfriend, but it’s far more likely to be Stephen’s daughter. He has grey hair and is something of a silver fox with brooding dark eyes.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asks politely.

  ‘I should’ve known it was you,’ Jo says.

  ‘What was me?’

  She points a finger towards his chest. ‘What kind of man runs over a child and drives off?’

  Stephen purses his lips. He squints, blinks and then puffs out his cheeks. ‘I am so sorry to hear what happened to your son,’ he says, with a measured calm. ‘But you have the wrong person.’

  Jo continues as if he hasn’t replied. ‘Oh, I know your sort. Nothing’s ever your fault, is it? Did you enjoy the sound it made when he bounced off the car? Or when—’

  ‘My car was stolen last week.’

  Stephen motions to the empty road in front of the house, where a vehicle might usually be parked.

  Jo turns to the spot and then quickly spins back to Stephen.

  ‘Isn’t that convenient?’ she continues.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Stephen replies. ‘I’ve been relying on my daughter to take me to work. Someone had parked outside my house, so I had to leave mine by the old post office. I went the next morning and it was gone. I reported the car stolen a week ago. You can check with the police or anyone else you want.’

  He’s unruffled and I have no question he’s telling the truth.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Jo says, although, for the first time, she sounds unsure of herself.

  ‘I’m not. I hope you find out what happened to your son – but it’s nothing to do with me.’

  Jo starts to say something else, but Neil grips her shoulder and gently tugs her backwards. ‘Let’s go home,’ he says, coolly. ‘We’ve got to go to the hospital in a bit anyway.’

  ‘I just—’

  ‘It’s not him,’ Neil adds, although there doesn’t seem to be much contrition that it was his declaration that set us off on a rush back here.

  He guides Jo slowly away from the doorstep and she edges between Holly and me, heading for the car.

  ‘They found your car,’ Neil says, turning backwards to talk over his shoulder. ‘The police have just dragged it out of the quarry.’

  For the first time since he came to the door, Stephen seems surprised. ‘Oh,’ he says, his long eyelashes fluttering. ‘Nobody’s said anything.’

  ‘It only happened half an hour ago.’

  Stephen checks his watch and starts to nod. ‘Right…’

  He waits in the door as Holly and myself turn and trail Neil and Jo along the street. I still can’t picture Stephen as a boy racer, but I suppose it takes all sorts.

  We all stop again at the car, with Jo leaning against the passenger side door and massaging her temples.

  ‘I just want my boy back,’ she says quietly.

  Nobody seems to know how to reply, but she already has the door open, before turning to Neil, who is at the driver’s side. They lock eyes and then Neil angles his head almost imperceptibly towards me. If I’d not been looking directly at him, I wouldn’t have caught it. Neither of them speak, but the look leaves the hairs standing on my arms.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Jo says, before heading around the car.

  ‘I’ll see you at the hospital later,’ I say.

  Jo stops on the other side of the car, though her eyes are lifeless. She slumps, using the roof to hold herself up.

  ‘Okay,’ she replies – and then she gets inside.

  Nineteen

  Jo drives off with Neil still in the back seat like he’s some dopey politician getting ferried around. It’s only as she takes the corner that I realise how many people are on the street. There are at least five residents standing in front doors watching everything that’s just happened, with more faces at windows. Stephen is still in his doorway, peering along the road to where Holly and I are now standing awkwardly.

  ‘Do you want to come in for a bit?’ Holly asks.

  She starts walking towards her house without waiting for a reply. I quick-step to catch up, mutter a ‘yes’, and then we hurry away from the street and through her unlocked front door. When it’s closed behind us, Holly shuffles around the boxes that still litter the hallway and leads me into the kitchen once more.

  ‘That’s going to be all over Facebook within five minutes,’ she says. ‘If it’s not already.’

  ‘Is there a lot of that around here?’ I ask.

  ‘It was bad enough when we were kids – but at least it was face-to-face gossip then. I suppose it felt more honest. Everything’s over messages, or Facebook now. Someone probably filmed it from across the street…’

  Holly takes out her phone, taps something into it and then puts it away again. She slumps into the same seat she was in the last time we were in her kitchen and I take the one next to her. I eye the pile of boxes off to the side, wondering if they’ve multiplied. Wondering what could possibly be in them. Holly needs a large garage, or a storage unit.

  ‘Why did Jo think it was Stephen?’ Holly asks.

  I flicker back to her. ‘We’d gone off to the quarry because Jo heard they’d found a car. She put two and two together and figured it was the one that hit Ethan. Then Neil recognised the car and…’ I shrug, but Holly gets it. Madness breeds madness.

  ‘It’s not the first time,’ she says.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Jo’s always had her moments when she’s gone a bit hyper. Remember that school trip when we were fourteen or fifteen and she was freaking out at that guy for speaking Spanish? She was telling him to “talk English” – and we were left there watching, not knowing what to say.’

  The memory drifts through the curtain of my mind. Some bloke with a dodgy ’tache who didn’t deserve to be shouted at. Different times, as people say now. ‘That was a long time ago,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not only that. Her and Neil are as bad as each other. There’s always some sort of drama or falling-out. Did you see Neil go to get in the driver’s seat before remembering we were there?’

  I try to replay the moment, wondering if that is what I saw. There was certainly something, but the look Neil gave Jo might have been a silent reminder that she had to drive. That he knew he was banned but was too embarrassed to say it in front of other people. I’m not sure what it was, not with any certainty. It felt wrong, whatever it was.

  ‘I saw something,’ I reply, trying to remain neutral.

  Holly doesn’t respond to that, instead glancing towards the kettle. ‘Brew?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  She glances to the bottle next to me on the table but doesn’t say anything about it as she clicks the kettle on anyway.

  With us in the same slots around her table as we were yesterday, it’s more evidence that I’ve somehow ended up back in this Elwood groove. I wonder what I might have been doing had I not found Ethan on Tuesday night. Could I have gone to Dad’s house and started clearing it without running into any of my old friends? I might’ve been done by now and then made a few decisions about what to do next. I came to Elwood without much of a plan and it’s hard to admit that this could be what I wanted all along… except for the hit-and-run, of course.

  ‘It’s not true,’ Holly says out of nothing.

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t see it, but, from what I heard, Stephen didn’t almost hit Petey last year.’ She motions towards the street at the front of the house. ‘Petey was doing wheelies in the middle of the road and Stephen was trying to park. Petey overbalanced and fell off. He grazed his knee and chin. There was a bit of blood, but nothing serious.’

  ‘Neil and Jo said you complained to the police about Stephen…?’

>   Holly shakes her head: ‘That didn’t happen. Jo wanted me to after Petey’s wheelie thing. She kept saying it could have been Ethan – but I didn’t even see it. None of us did. We were all in here and one of the neighbours knocked on the door. Stephen does rev his car a bit much – and I’ve seen him driving really quickly off the estate – but he’s not the only one.’

  Holly pushes her hair away from her face and scratches at a small flake near her ear. It curls away and lands on the table between us and she brushes it onto the floor.

  ‘We’re redecorating upstairs,’ she says as an explanation. ‘I must have been walking around like this for hours.’ She bats away a yawn and then pours herself a mug of instant coffee. ‘Not sleeping well,’ she adds, without prompting.

  ‘Since Ethan?’

  ‘I suppose. It’s Jo, as well. I keep thinking something bad is going to happen with her.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like today, where she overreacts to something.’ There’s the briefest of pauses and then: ‘She should try some of my oils. I’ve got some great stuff for helping people to stay calm. I keep talking to her about it, but she’s not interested.’

  Holly opens the nearest box and pulls out a small vial of dark yellow liquid that has more than a passing resemblance to urine.

  ‘Do you want a sample?’ she asks. ‘They’re good for all sorts of thing. There’s an essence of orange that I use on my skin every day, then I use lavender at night to help with sleep.’

  I wonder if she’s going to acknowledge the fact that she just told me she wasn’t sleeping well – but it seemingly passes her by.

  She starts unpacking the nearest box, placing vial after vial on the table and listing various benefits that sound suspiciously cultish. I only realise I’ve stumbled into a sales pitch when she’s laid out half a dozen small bottles. ‘I could do this lot at cost,’ she says. ‘I know you’ll love them and then we could talk about a bigger order. Perhaps you’ve got some friends back where you’ve been staying who’ll be interested…?’