Neil doesn’t reply, but he does take a couple of steps backwards, away from the conflict.
‘You keep walking away,’ Mark says with a grin.
‘Please go,’ Owen says.
‘He’s not your dad,’ Mark replies, nodding past his son towards Neil.
‘I know,’ Owen replies. ‘But please go.’
Mark dances a shuffle on the spot, then feigns a punch.
‘I’m watching you,’ he says, still looking at Neil. ‘I know what you did.’
Twenty-Three
The house is achingly quiet when I get home. There’s a little part of me that wishes my mother was still here, if only for there to be something other than this encapsulating nothingness. The downstairs curtains are open, but the only thing seeping through is the numbing blankness of night.
I drift through to the living room and examine my father’s dwindling booze supply. As inheritances go, there isn’t much of a lasting appeal. I grab the final haul of vodka and empty it into my bottle and then dump the glass itself into the kitchen bin. Everything feels strange. I should go to bed but can’t face sleeping by myself. I want to leave this house, but I want to be here, too. I never want to see my mother again, but, if she knocked on the door right now, I’d let her in. I’m not sure I ever want to hear Jo’s name again, she isn’t my friend, and yet, if I’m not looking out for Ethan, then I have a horrible feeling nobody is.
When I sit on the sofa, my head starts to swirl. I close my eyes but, when I open them, the room is still spinning. Dad’s newspaper stacks zoom towards me and so I clamp my eyes shut once more. I squeeze the bridge of my nose and lean back into the headrest, forcing myself to take long, deep breaths. It would usually help but not now. All I can smell is that musty reek of Old Spice. Of Dad. I have to sit up again and gulp down the air, willing the sensation to pass.
‘Please,’ I whisper. ‘Please.’
When I next open my eyes, I’ve slipped onto the floor without noticing. My back is against the side of the sofa and the walls have stopped blurring into fuzzy circles.
When I look ahead, I’m staring at the crack in the skirting board again. The small crimson dots are clearer now, though when I run my finger across them, there are no raised pimples. I blink, but they’re still there. It feels closer than before and I wince as I feel my father’s steel-capped work boots first crushing my ribs and then slamming towards my face.
I close my eyes to blank it out again, the same as I did then. I’m tense, waiting for the blows that never come.
This house, my house, is my prison, but I know that, until someone finds out what really happened to Ethan, I will not be able to leave.
Twenty-Four
FRIDAY
I wake up on the living room floor. Light gushes through the open curtains, sending squares of heat onto the carpet. The ceiling swirls and then starts charging towards me. I close my eyes, but it does nothing to stop the fuzziness.
I know what’s coming and heave myself up using the arm of the sofa, then rush into the kitchen. My stomach retches and my throat burns as I empty my guts into the sink, somehow having the awareness to avoid the dirty dishes.
Not that it would matter.
I groan and use the counter to hold myself into something close to a vertical position. I cup my hands and scoop water into my mouth, partly trying to get rid of the acrid taste and partly trying to soothe my grated throat.
The water has the opposite effect and another retch screams through me as it feels like I’m turning myself inside out. As I’m doubled over the sink, there’s a moment in which it feels like my mother is standing behind me, one hand on my shoulder, the other holding my hair behind me in a ponytail. I’d forgotten until now, but it happened before, when I was fourteen or fifteen. I was in the bathroom upstairs then, on my knees with my head in the toilet bowl. It felt like I was dying, but she was there with me, making gentle cooing noises and telling me I’d be okay.
I would do anything to have that now.
My stomach erupts once more and I find myself on tiptoes while I retch into the sink. I’m old enough to know I’m not dying now – but it sure feels like it. Everything hurts.
I remain hunched over the sink with my eyes closed, waiting until my stomach has finished clenching and crunching. There’s such relief when it’s finally over. It’s been a long time since I’ve thrown up this much. It’s like when an athlete is training for a marathon. At one point, running ten miles feels like it’s much too far and will never happen. Then, after months of building up to it, and when twenty-six miles is within sight, a ten-mile run is barely a morning jog. For me, carrying around my bottle every day is that training.
My stomach gurgles, but there’s nothing left in it. I fill my bottle with water and slather three slices of bread with Marmite, before taking it all into the living room. I slump into the armchair – the one that least smells of Dad – and then switch on the television at the mains. The blackness flickers to light and I think I’m hallucinating for a moment as Jo’s face swirls into view.
It takes me a moment to realise that she actually is on the screen. The shots alternate between Diane Young and Jo – and, as I realise what’s happening, I’m amazed at how professional it seems. I can still picture the pair of them as they were yesterday, but something about the lights and quality of camera makes everything seem so much more slick than it did when I was watching in person.
My head is still fuzzy, my thoughts clouded, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing what’s happening on screen. I missed it yesterday, but the interspersed shots of the town, combined with lines like ‘the Elwood underclass’, along with ‘a close-knit community bonded together by a steady decline in living standards’, makes it clear that we are something to be gawked at. That only someone from a place like this could plough into a child and then drive off. Nobody in a respectable community would dream of doing such a thing. God forbid those yummy mummies in their borderline tanks could ever do wrong.
It’s only as my anger builds that I realise how defensive I’m feeling over this stupid place. That, deep down, in a way that will never leave me, Elwood still feels like my town and that its residents are my people.
The interview continues to roll as Diane builds to the thought for the day. As she starts with her ‘I’m talking to you now’ line, much of the impact I felt from yesterday has gone. It feels rehearsed now and far less sincere. Without waiting for her to finish, I turn off the television with the remote and then down more water from my bottle while still nibbling at the bread.
With the TV silenced, I feel my attention drawn back to the skirting board again. The top-to-bottom crack is still there, but when I look closer, those little pinprick dots of blackened red are gone. I crouch onto my hands and knees and am so close that my forehead touches the wall. Still nothing. Not on the skirting board anyway. The scar close to my temple still has the pimply marks that have been there since the night after my mother left.
I hurry into the kitchen, then out through the back door into the porch to where there’s a rusting toolbox with a creaky lid. The crunching hinge makes it feel as if it hasn’t been opened in years. There is a hotchpotch of tools inside. When he was younger, my father was handy with this type of thing. He could do a limited amount of rewiring and he redecorated all the rooms upstairs. He built the liquor cabinet with that expensive wood that he sourced himself – although there’s an irony in that the contents are what ultimately robbed him of the drive and ability to make similar things.
There is a heavy hammer that I drop on the floor, along with grime-coated screwdrivers, a penknife and a wrench, until I get to the crowbar underneath. Back in the living room, I squeeze the flat end onto the top of the skirting and then slide it down until it wedges itself between the wood and the wall. It only takes a sharp levering and there’s a crunch as the board flips away from the wall, leaving four or five layers of crusty wallpaper hanging loose.
I grab the splintered wood an
d burst through the house until I’m on the front drive. There’s a large wheelie bin in the corner, with Dad’s house number sloppily painted onto the side. It’s full and it stinks of something rotten – but I dump the plank onto the top and then shove everything down before slamming the lid.
It doesn’t matter any longer whether there are spots of my blood on there.
When I turn back to go in, I realise Chris’s car is parked on the drive at the front of his mum’s house. I stare, knowing something’s different – something’s wrong – though I don’t spot it at first.
It takes a few seconds for me to clock that the front bumper has been replaced. Instead of the scuff that was there days ago, the entire unit has been switched with something so untouched that it’s completely at odds with the rest of the vehicle.
I goggle for a moment, not quite sure what to do. It feels like I shouldn’t ignore it, but what else can I do? Tell Tina from the police that my next-door neighbour’s son, my long-ago ex-boyfriend, has replaced his bumper? Or Sergeant Davidson? Is it important?
I’m heading for Dad’s front door when next door’s pops open and Helena emerges. She calls across to me before I can get away and then hobbles over to catch me on the doorstep.
‘I saw it in the paper,’ she says. ‘I didn’t expect the funeral to be so soon.’
It takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about my dad. ‘I meant to come and knock to tell you, but things got away from me,’ I say. ‘There was an opening at the funeral directors’, so I took it.’
‘I’ll be there, dear. How many are you expecting?’
‘I have no idea. There’s me and you – so that’s two.’
I force a smile, but Helena doesn’t reciprocate.
Before either of us can say anything else, Chris appears from her front door. His brow creases as he turns to take us in, but then he strolls across and rests a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
‘I’ve gotta head off, Mum,’ he says.
‘Are you coming over tomorrow night?’
‘Maybe. I’ll let you know.’
He kisses her on the top of the head, nods at me and then heads to his car. The engine snarls and then he’s off around the corner with a splutter of the exhaust.
When it’s quiet again, Helena turns back to me and pats my arm. ‘I’ll see you at four then,’ she says. ‘Be nice for your dad to have a proper send-off.’
I’m not sure how I feel about her being at Dad’s funeral. There would be a certain degree of justice if it was only me who turned up. I can hardly tell her not to come.
‘See you at four,’ I reply.
She rubs her arms as if cold, nods, and then heads back to her house.
I’m about to go inside myself when I notice the flicker of movement from the corner of the hedge that borders Helena’s house on the far side. I stand and watch as a flash of blonde hair appears.
‘Beth…?’
The teenager steps out from behind the hedge and straightens her top. I wonder how long she’s been there, apparently waiting for me to be alone.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
Beth nods as she approaches the house. She glances over her shoulder nervously, although there’s nobody there.
‘I came to say I was wrong,’ she says.
‘About what?’
‘When I said I was home when Ethan left on the day he got hit. I was actually with Owen. I mixed up the times.’
She scuffs a foot along the gravel of the drive and checks over her shoulder once more.
‘Was Owen at your house?’ I ask.
She shakes her head quickly. ‘No. We were both out together.’
Beth twists on the spot, peeping over her shoulder again.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’ I ask.
‘No.’
She tries to smile, but it’s forced and nervy.
‘You were so specific,’ I say. ‘You were babysitting and thinking about doing fish fingers for tea.’
Beth bites her lip. ‘Yeah, um… I mixed up the days. That was another time. Owen and I were together on Tuesday afternoon. We’ve been friends for ages.’
The lie is so bad, so transparent, that I don’t know how to react. She might as well be telling me she’s next in line to the throne. I don’t know her well enough to call her out.
‘You didn’t have to find me to tell me this,’ I say.
‘I know. I’ve been thinking about it, that’s all. After I talked to you when Petey was there, I was walking home wondering if I’d mixed up the days. I didn’t want you getting the wrong idea.’
‘About what?’
She squeezes her knees together, as if she needs a wee. ‘I, um… well, y’know…’ She holds up her phone. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
Beth takes a couple of steps away before I say her name. When she turns back to me, I can see in her eyes that she knows she’s failed in whatever this was.
‘It’s not me you have to convince,’ I say.
She doesn’t reply, though her arms slump to her sides.
‘Have the police talked to you?’ I add.
‘No.’
‘Getting details wrong with me is one thing – but getting them wrong with the police is something else entirely.’
She stares at the ground and then takes another small step back towards the direction from which she came.
‘Is there something you want to talk about?’ I ask.
Beth pauses and, for a moment, it feels as if she might let me know what’s really going on.
‘I got confused,’ she says. ‘That’s all.’
She gives a small wave, checks over her shoulder once more – and then she’s gone.
Twenty-Five
When I pass Hendo’s, there’s a man with a long-lens camera taking photos across the car park. I’m past him before I decide to go back. He’s older and grey, with a gnarly beard and the expression of a man with permanently rolled eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
He eyes me up and down and then unscrews a lens and returns it to the bag on the floor.
‘What’s it to you?’ he replies, though it doesn’t feel particularly unkind.
‘Just nosy, I guess.’
That gets the slimmest of grins. ‘Least yer honest.’ He nods at the building. ‘Industrial property space, innit?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means it’s going up for sale.’
‘When?’
A shrug. ‘I just take the pictures, love.’
He clips another lens onto his camera and shifts around me, ending the conversation.
I watch as he moves onto the car park and starts taking photos of the wide-open space on which there would once have been long rows of cars.
I leave him to it and continue through the streets until I get to the bit-of-everything shop from yesterday. Inside, and the Pot Noodles on offer have gone, though much of the pallet of orange squash remains. Today’s special is Heinz Tomato Soup, with a small mountain of cans loaded into an alcove close to the window.
There’s a new Elwood Echo on the shelf at the front.
POLICE CHASE LEADS IN HIT-AND-RUN CASE
Boy, 8, remains in intensive care
I scan the story, but there is very little new information. Sergeant Davidson insists they are following ‘several leads’. The main note of interest is that ‘a car extracted from a nearby quarry yesterday morning has been ruled out of the enquiry’. I suppose that means Stephen’s story of having his car stolen checks out.
This time, Ethan has been named. I suppose it was inevitable after the TV company got hold of Jo. There are photos of her with the family, and more still of Ethan as a young boy. The more I read, the more I see the frustration of nothing happening. It almost feels like whoever wrote the story wants a death, because at least something will have occurred. Death by dangerous driving has to sound a lot better than leaving the scene of an accident.
‘You gonna buy that?�
��
I twist to see the shop owner standing with his arms folded.
‘I, um—’
‘This ain’t a library.’
‘I was—’
‘I know what you were doing.’
I feel like a chastened child. At least this guy wasn’t around twenty years ago to catch me nicking music magazines by slipping them into my school bag.
‘I’m looking for vodka,’ I say, as I return the paper to the pile with the rest of them.
The man nods me across to the counter, where there is a rack of cigarettes and alcohol behind the till. He has Smirnoff and some other brand, where none of the label is in English.
‘Which one’s cheaper?’ I ask.
He offers the bottle with the foreign label and I pay him with a twenty-pound note from Dad’s stash, thinking my father would certainly approve of the purchase. The man puts the bottle in a carrier bag and I’m about to turn to go when he coughs to clear his throat.
‘Terrible, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘What?’
He nods across to the papers. ‘That someone could do that and drive away.’
I nod along, not knowing what he wants me to say. I’m hardly going to disagree.
‘Everyone knows who did it anyway,’ he adds.
I’ve already taken a step away when I angle back to him.
‘Sorry…?’
‘They pulled his car out of the quarry yesterday.’
‘I read the police had ruled him out.’
The man shakes his head. ‘Not what I heard. Have you seen what they did to his house?’
‘No.’
He shrugs. ‘You need ta get on the internet, love. Get on Google.’
Back on the street and it feels a few degrees warmer than when I entered the shop. In previous days, I felt comfortable but, after last night and this morning’s repercussions in the sink, my stomach is gurgling. I head into the alley at the side of the store, have a gulp of the water from my bottle and then dump the rest down the drain, before replacing it with what I’ve just bought. My fingers are trembling as I swig down the mouthfuls that won’t fit in my bottle, and then I dump the glass into the large metal bin near the shop’s back door. I press myself into the shadows and take a few breaths. There is a little over two hours until Dad’s funeral and then that part of my life will be done.
The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 13
