It takes me a few seconds to stumble over a sentence. ‘I didn’t realise you sold this stuff,’ I manage, trying to put her off while I come up with a diplomatic way of telling her I’m not interested.
‘I run my own business,’ Holly replies. ‘Most of it’s on Facebook, but I host some parties now and then. I got a stall at the craft market in the community centre last month, though it’s a bunch of cheapskates round there. Nobody has any money in this place.’ She doesn’t bother to hide her contempt. ‘If you want to start selling things yourself, I can set you up as a distributor. It’s guaranteed money. I’m making thousands.’ She pauses and, when I don’t give an instant reply, adds: ‘It’s not a scam.’
I resist the urge to point out that most businesses don’t need to pitch themselves as ‘not a scam’. I glance back towards the hallway and the columns of boxes, plus the ones in here. There has to be thousands of pounds’ worth of stock cluttering up the house. Despite her claims, I wonder how much debt she’s in through all of this. It’s unquestionably some sort of dodgy scheme. Someone would have promised her untold riches while being able to set her own hours. The products change – oils, cosmetics, underwear, protein shakes, or who knows what else – but the methods remain the same. The only people who make any amount of money are those who recruit a lot of people to sell underneath them.
My only surprise is that she didn’t start trying to sell me this stuff when I was first here.
‘I’ve got a lot on at the moment,’ I say. ‘With my dad and everything. I’m not looking to take on anything until I’ve figured out what I’m going to do with the house. I don’t even know where I might end up living. It’s the funeral tomorrow.’
‘Oh…’ Holly puts a couple of the vials back into the box at her side. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so soon.’
‘There was an opening, so I booked it.’
She continues packing the bottles away with a steadily increasing vigour until she slaps the box flaps closed.
‘Let me know if you change your mind,’ she says, without looking up.
‘I will.’
We sit in the awkward silence and it’s starting to feel as if we’re two people who have nothing in common.
I ask where her toilet is, more to get a break than anything else. She tells me it’s the final door on the left upstairs, but, when I get up there, I check each of the other rooms anyway. Call it curiosity, or – perhaps – outright nosiness.
The first door opens into what I assume is Holly’s own room. There’s a lot of pink, with heart-shaped pillows on the bed. The room next door smells of men’s deodorant, though the lights are off and the curtains pulled. It’s dark and I don’t bother to venture any further inside. The next room has a single bed set up in the middle, though it is largely empty other than that. There’s certainly nothing out of the ordinary.
When I get into the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bath and close my eyes.
I could just leave. Not only get away from Holly’s but also the town. Every hour I’m here makes it feel like I’m being drawn back into the drama that comes with living in a place like Elwood. It’s not the extremes of a hit-and-run, it’s the little things. There are the arguments over wild rumours – like with Jo at Stephen’s door – or the witless moneymaking schemes. Those are the sorts of things with which I grew up. The sorts of things that made me want to get the hell out of here. It might not have been essential oils, but my father was a man who was always involved in some sort of plan with a bloke down the pub, designed to get them rich. It wasn’t only them. Jo’s dad went to prison for a similar sort of plot, albeit one that was appallingly executed. I suppose I kept telling myself that was the way things were in the past – but I now see how little has changed. Some of that’s evident in the sheer number of people home during a weekday, or the emptiness of Hendo’s car park. Elwood feels like a place that’s dying – and it’s going to take down every last person here.
I drink from my bottle and then have a cupful of water from the tap. In case anyone’s listening, I flush the toilet, let the taps run properly, and then head back downstairs. Holly is still in the kitchen and it doesn’t look like she’s moved. She’s checking something on her phone but puts it on the table when I come in.
‘Have the police spoken to you about Ethan again?’ she asks.
‘There’s not a lot more I can say. The main guy, Davidson, was at the quarry today. He said they were determined to find whoever was driving the car.’
‘Do they think it was the person that stole Stephen’s car?’
‘I have no idea… I’m not sure they do, either.’
Holly nods along.
‘It’s been two days,’ she says after a while. ‘They’d have something, wouldn’t they? If there was a camera on a shop somewhere, or if there was a better witness—’ She stops herself. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Not that you’re a bad witness, just that—’
‘I get it.’
There’s a pause and then she adds: ‘I hope he’s okay.’
It does feel as if Ethan has been lost in so much of what’s happened since I found him in that gutter. Does finding the person who committed a crime trump the need to care for the victim?
In everything that’s happened today, the dent on the front of Chris’s car has largely slipped my mind.
‘Sorry to change the subject,’ I say. ‘But can I ask you something about Chris?’
Holly has her mug of coffee in her hand, but she stops with it part way to her mouth. ‘You’re not still…?’
‘No,’ I reply quickly. ‘Not that. His mum still lives next door and I saw him the other day. I wondered what he’s been up to all these years.’
That seems to satisfy Holly’s curiosity. She has a sip of her coffee and then returns the mug to the table. ‘He’s got a wife and kids, all that,’ she says.
Despite the years that have passed, there’s a part of myself and Chris that will always be linked. First boyfriends and girlfriends always mean something.
‘I met his wife, Kirsty. He said she was in the year below us at school. She didn’t seem too happy to see me.’
Holly suppresses a smile and then picks up her mug again, partly hiding behind it. ‘I heard he’s into some dodgy stuff,’ she says.
The day suddenly feels colder, like her kitchen has been doused in shadow.
‘Like what?’ I ask.
Holly takes her time. She drinks more of her coffee and then puts down the mug once more.
‘It’s only rumours,’ she says.
‘What rumours?’
‘He was selling dodgy satellite boxes round the estate. Those ones that get all the channels. It was one of those open secrets, so I don’t know how he got away without the police investigating. Then he was in a fight last year. He had too much to drink and kicked off with some bloke after a football game. It sounds like he picked the wrong guy – because he got a right kicking. Everyone I know who was there reckoned he deserved it.’
She pauses for breath and then says: ‘He was working at a building supply place a few years ago – but got sacked for stealing. I can’t remember everything that happened, but it was something like he was doing deals for his mates.’ She scratches her head, then adds: ‘There’s probably more. You know what it’s like round here.’
None of those things sound good, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the dent in his bumper is anything other than his wife driving into a pillar, like he claimed.
‘Have you talked to him since you got back?’ Holly asks.
‘A bit.’
She waits, wanting more.
‘He told me that, back when we were going out, he was going to ask me to marry him.’
From nowhere, Holly becomes as animated as I’ve seen her. She bashes the table and almost knocks over her mug. She’s a mix of surprised and amused. ‘What? When?’
‘He talked about taking me to this lake where we first had a good talk. I broke up with him not long a
fter I turned eighteen, so I suppose it was sometime around then?’
‘You were only kids.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t get why—’
Holly is interrupted by her phone dinging. She glances down to the screen and then picks it up off the table and frowns at it.
‘It’s a customer,’ she says. ‘I need to make a call. I won’t be long.’
She hurries from the kitchen, closing the door behind her, and then disappears.
I stay put for a moment and then act on the urge I ignored the other day. I already know Holly has various oils in the box stacked on top, so I lift that off and then open the flaps of the box below.
More oils.
The box under that contains the same.
Holly’s hoarding so much stock, it’s no wonder she was trying to fob some off onto me.
I go to the fridge next, where new calendar notes have been added to the old ones. I’m busy examining the photo of Holly with her ex, Tom, and Rob, when the kitchen door goes. I turn, expecting to see Holly – but it’s her son instead. I didn’t know he was in. He didn’t seem to be upstairs when I had a nosy around the rooms.
Rob lets out an ‘oh’ before turning back towards the hall.
‘Your mum’s on the phone somewhere,’ I tell him.
‘Oh, um…’
He turns back to me and bobs from foot to foot, which is when I figure out he already knows this. I’ve seen plenty of teenage boys nervous about talking to girls – and realise he has come into the kitchen for another reason.
‘Can I help?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, um…’
‘Do you want to ask me something? It’s okay if you do.’
He takes a breath and sets himself. He looks towards me, though not directly at me. Perhaps to the wall near me. ‘What’s it like out there?’ he asks.
For a moment, I think he means outside the front door, in the sun. I’m not sure what to say – but then he clarifies.
‘Away from Elwood,’ he adds. ‘The rest of the world.’
‘That’s a big question. I heard you might be off to Liverpool.’
‘Hopefully.’
Rob bites his lip and it’s his little glance back towards the hall that makes me realise he doesn’t want his mum to know he’s asking.
‘You should go,’ I tell him. ‘Not just for uni, but for life in general. If you get a chance to travel, then take it.’
He half turns once more.
‘Your life is your own,’ I say. ‘Some people are born in one place and never leave. It’s fine, but there are people, places and things you’ll never experience in Elwood. You see the world in a different way when you get out.’
‘What if someone relies on you?’
‘I suppose that depends on who it is and why. If you’re talking about your mum, I think she’ll probably be okay. Liverpool isn’t the other side of the planet. It’s only a few hours away. Besides, she told me you were the smart one. She seemed proud of you.’
He nods and stands a little taller. I suspect this might be the thing he’s been waiting to hear. ‘Where have you lived?’
‘Mainly London. I’ve been around, though. I spent a summer working in Spain and a festival season in Edinburgh.’
‘Why did you leave Elwood?’
It’s my turn to feel awkward – but I’m too far down this hole now.
‘A few reasons. Mainly that I wasn’t getting on with my dad. I figured there wasn’t much for me here.’
He spins a little on the spot, seemingly unsure if he should say what he’s thinking. Then, he simply comes out with it: ‘Sometimes I feel stuck.’
‘Isn’t that what going to university is all about? You can’t do that here, even if you wanted to.’
‘I just—’
‘Go. Don’t just go to uni and then come back in three years to work around here. You’re better than that. Go and never look back.’
He’s nodding more vigorously now. ‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘Sure.’
‘If that’s the case, why are you back?’
My throat is suddenly dry and it’s like my tongue is too big to fit in my mouth. ‘I’m not sure I know the answer to that,’ I say.
Twenty
As I walk towards Dad’s house, the sun is as hot as I can remember. The way the heat tickles my arms leaves me reliving those summer holidays where Holly, Jo and I would sleep until lunchtime and then meet in the park. There were no mobile phones to make plans then – but we all knew where to be.
There must have been rainy days during the summer holidays – but the only times I recall are those when it felt like the sun shone from first thing to last. The three of us would waste day after day sitting around talking about who knows what. If not that, we’d watch the boys play football or cricket. In the evenings, we’d sit under the trees as the sun went down, drinking whatever illicit booze we’d been able to get. They were the best of times – and yet they really weren’t.
I change my mind and start to take the long route around, putting off the return to the house. The sooner I sort out the house, the sooner I can move on; literally and figuratively. That’s what I think I want and yet there’s an irony that I can’t do that while I’m going out of my way to spend as little time as possible there.
I’m drawn to the High Street and the first thing I spot is Chris’s car parked outside the bookies again. I figure he’s in the betting shop – but then I see a shadowed head bob back and forward and realise Chris is in the driver’s seat. I’m on the other side of the road and am almost past when I clock a familiar bike leaning against the lamp post closest to the car. There’s a collision of unanswered questions from the past couple of days as Petey clambers out of the passenger seat. He leans into the car and says something to Chris before stepping back and slinging a backpack over his scrawny shoulder. With that, he retrieves his bike and pedals off along the pavement, weaving between a pair of pedestrians as he rounds the corner.
I’ve been watching Petey but, as I blink back towards this end of the High Street, I realise that the driver’s side window is now down on Chris’s car and he’s resting an elbow on the frame, watching me. I feel frozen for a second as he touches his index finger to his temple and gives a salute. I don’t know how to acknowledge this, whether to know if it was friendly. I don’t get a chance anyway because he turns back to the front, starts the car, and then pulls out into the street, heading in the opposite direction to Petey.
It’s Elwood in a nutshell, I suppose. Everything is connected. Everyone is connected. I can’t escape the feeling that, somehow, it all leads back to Ethan and what happened to him. Perhaps that’s why I’m still here, even though all my instincts tell me to go?
I walk more quickly now and soon find myself back on the edge of the park. I take the turn into Beverly Close and start to fumble through my bag, hunting for the key. I’m already on the path when I realise there’s someone sitting on the doorstep directly in front of me.
She pushes herself up and brushes the hair from her face as she takes a breath.
‘Hello, Abigail,’ she says.
It takes a second to see past the new wrinkles and the long grey hair – but the recognition is still there, despite all the years.
‘Mum…?’
Twenty-One
‘You’re so grown up, Abigail.’
It jars to hear my full name. Whenever anyone phones and asks for that name, I know it’s a marketing company. Anybody who knows me calls me ‘Abi’. Abigail feels like someone else.
‘People tend to grow up when you don’t see them for more than twenty years.’
Mum bows her head slightly to acknowledge the point. ‘I gather you left not long after I did…?’
I gulp back the angry response I want to give and half turn, determined not to let any emotion show. This is so sudden, so unexpected, that it feels like I’ve been hit in the chest. I’m short of breath, struggling not only for
words but also to breathe properly.
‘You left me, Mum. It wasn’t just Dad. You walked out on me and never made contact.’
‘Did you want me to stay there for longer with your father? You were eighteen. I got you through to being an adult. What more is a mother supposed to do?’
‘How about act like a mother?’
It’s unsettling to see her after so long but what’s more unnerving is how much we look alike. It could be a false memory, but, when I was young, I don’t remember there being much of a resemblance. People used to say I looked like my dad, but never Mum. It’s different now, as if I’ve become a younger version of her without noticing. Our hair is the same length and, though mine isn’t as grey as hers, it’s on the way. There are crescent wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, the type of which I’ve been noticing on myself recently.
She moves to the side, letting me get to the door. I unlock it and then wait in the frame, facing inside, away from my mother. I almost close the door behind me but can’t bring myself to do it.
I turn to stare at her and it’s like she’s a ghost. I can’t quite believe she’s here.
‘Are you coming in?’
I hold the door open and Mum passes me. I close the door behind us and, when I turn, she’s at the bottom of the stairs, turning to take in the hall. I leave her to it and slip around her, into the kitchen. I’m filling a mug with water when she follows me in.
We stand on opposite sides of the kitchen; her examining the fridge, me drinking next to the sink. The note with my phone number is still on the fridge and there’s a part of me that wants to rip it away before she has a chance to either take it or memorise it.
She turns and watches me drink. I stop almost instantly, those stirrings of self-consciousness making me feel like a teenager again.
Mum holds out a hand, indicating the house. ‘I’m guessing this is all yours now…?’
‘Are we really going to argue about this?’
‘I lived here once.’ She states this as a fact, not necessarily to pick a fight.
The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 11
