4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  Something has awoken me. I can’t breathe. The passageway to my throat won’t open, it has stuck. I grasp the edge of my chair and try to stand. Perhaps someone will notice me through the window. I frantically rap on the glass, fearing that I am about to die as I drift in and out of oblivion. Suddenly I gasp for air and the passageway opens up again. The relief floods through me as my eyes try to focus in the dark. I can just make out the time on the clock. It’s nearly nine.

  I need to turn the lamp on but am very unsteady on my feet. I am wet all over. Water is dripping from my forehead and from the back of my neck. I fumble under my dressing gown and feel my drenched nightdress. Something draws my eye across the road, however, before I reach for the lamp.

  I watch Caroline Swinton’s husband, the man I assume is her husband as he accompanied her to the Harpers’ a few nights ago, approach the front door of the house for sale. Why is he going there at this time of night? There is no sign of Mr Herriott. Perhaps the man wants to look around. But it seems an odd thing to do.

  He walks round the darkened building before returning to the front porch and rings the bell. It is a few minutes before the door opens and someone ushers him quickly through and closes the door after him but I can’t make out who is in there. I think they are being careful not to be seen.

  I have been asleep for the past two hours and things have been happening while I nearly died.

  I pull on my little ankle boots and swap the dressing gown for my winter coat. Of course I shouldn’t be going out as there is a slight skiff of rain in the air but as I pull down the woollen beret over my ears, I know I have no option. Someone has to find out what is going on and I know no one else will bother. Everyone is too busy behind their closed doors.

  A blast of cold air nearly knocks me over as I open the back door from the kitchen leading through to Bob’s allotment. There is something in amongst the vegetables, a fox perhaps, rustling through the stalks but it scurries off as I move forward. A full moon illuminates the path to the gate at the bottom of the garden. I stagger slowly along. I clutch my phone in my left hand in case Bob phones. He should have been home by now.

  The ragged blades of straggling undergrowth send wet shivers through my body which is shaking involuntarily. I plough on. It seems an eternity till I reach the exit to the outside world, to the little coppice with the river flowing through it. An owl hoots from on high, welcoming me to his night-time world, and the gate creaks open as I grip the fence to circuit the back of the cul-de-sac.

  I stop every few seconds to catch my breath and wait for the pain in my chest to die down enough to let me carry on. I switch on the small torch on my phone as Bob taught me a couple of days ago, jesting that it would be useful in a power cut. It lights my way.

  It is then I see someone up ahead coming out the back entrance from the empty house. It is too far off for me to make out who it is. I squint in the darkness, frantically trying to switch off the torch as I flail weakly against the wet fence. The cough is rearing up again and for a moment I fear the game might be up as the cough battles to explode. I needn’t worry because the person jogs quickly away in the opposite direction, pulling a dark hooded top up round their ears. They hesitate briefly as I stumble to stay upright.

  The ground is calling me and I am losing my balance. I manage to shuffle a few yards further. It is enough. I extract the phone which I stuffed in my pocket to conceal the torch and manage to click the camera setting. On the ground there are several footprints which have been left by the disappearing jogger. I manage a couple of close-up snaps before dizziness rocks my vision and balance, and I know I have to get back. The rain is falling more persistently and will soon wipe clean all traces of the recent hooded stranger. I will have the only record of their presence.

  I’m scared I won’t make it home. Fear grips my heart as the world spins on its axis. I inch along, one tiny step at a time, but quite suddenly I think once more that I’m going to die. I manage to make it through the back gate into our garden and the last thing I remember is Bob running through the vegetable patch towards me, shouting out my name and catching me as I slither to the ground.

  37

  Alexis

  The sirens wake me. They are in life-or-death mode. I hear the high-pitched wailing sounds slice through the quiet night air and fade away below my window. The bedside clock is showing ten thirty. I slip out of bed and glance down through the window at the street below. The ambulance is outside Olive’s house. A chill premonition of death pervades my tiredness. I pull on my jogging bottoms and sweatshirt, now fully awake.

  I rush down the stairs and notice that Adam’s door is ajar but there’s no movement from within and I remember he told me he was on duty tonight. I unlock the front door and pull on my trainers, watching the small blue light continue its relentless but now silent beat on top of the ambulance.

  Across the road, Bob is standing like a robot staring at the stretcher as it is carried out over the threshold. Shock and fear are etched on his face along with something else. Guilt.

  ‘I shouldn’t have left her. She told me she was fine,’ he mumbles as I draw alongside. He is berating himself for her collapse as if it was his fault.

  ‘What happened?’ I gently put an arm around his shoulder.

  He doesn’t speak but leans over the small bony cadaver hidden under an oxygen mask and swathes of blankets. I try to comfort him.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be fine,’ I say with as much conviction as I can muster.

  He nods and clambers into the vehicle after his wife before the doors close behind them. I walk up to their front door which, in his moment of distress, Bob has left wide open. I slam it shut. It is lucky Olive entrusted me with a spare key.

  I try to call Adam as the sirens start up again and the ambulance manoeuvres its way round the close. Lights have been snapped on in some of the other houses as the neighbours spy curiously from behind curtains at the unfolding drama.

  His phone goes to voicemail.

  ‘Adam. It’s me, Alexis.’ I instantly regret the word me, it is too familiar, as if I’m still the main person in his life but I need to get his attention.

  ‘It’s Olive from across the road. She’s on her way to the hospital and I’m coming there now. Please call when you get this.’ I’ll make him help, make him prove his importance and influence which he so incessantly brags about. Power over life and death is his boast. I’ve heard it often enough.

  I drive too quickly but am desperate to get to the hospital to try to help Olive and Bob. Adam can use his authority to make sure she gets the best care. He owes me that.

  When I arrive at the hospital entrance, I soon find myself engulfed by the dimly lit building with its eerie night-time feel. The daytime bustle of concerned visitors with their forced levity is glaringly absent. The smell of disinfectant clings to the sterile corridors and I feel the fear from ghostly patients who wander back and forth. No one talks and I find myself smiling wanly at random people.

  Olive is in a small ward on the first floor and I can see, from the corridor, Bob caressing her hand. She is attached to all sorts of wires and tubes but the heart monitor is beating steadily; comfortingly.

  ‘Alexis.’ I jump, startled, and turn round to see Adam dressed in his operating attire. Standing alongside, he also peers through the window at the fragile patient.

  ‘She’ll be fine. I suspect she’s got pneumonia but she’s in the right place,’ he says in his consoling doctor’s voice, as if placating a concerned relative. He places a light hand on top of mine and for a fleeting moment, I’m tempted to forget our differences. Instead I take my hand away and ask, ‘Can I talk to her?’

  ‘Just for a few minutes. She’s very groggy but aware of where she is.’ He pushes open the door and the nurse on duty steps aside reverently as we enter. Bob is still gripping Olive’s hand, reluctant to let it go. Adam asks the nurse to get us some coffees and Bob agrees to go with her, relieved for a moment that I am there to
hold the fort. I turn to Adam and simply say, ‘thanks’ as he turns to leave the room.

  Olive’s eyes are firmly shut and I can hear a faint puff of air escape through her parched lips every couple of seconds. I think she is asleep but suddenly her lids peel back and she stares at me.

  ‘Across the road.’ I think this is what she says but I can’t be certain.

  ‘Pardon. What do you mean?’ I lean down close to her, turning my ear towards her lips. ‘Across the road?’ I repeat.

  ‘The house for sale,’ she croaks before her lids droop together again. Her fingers are agitating, the tips flicking up and down. She’s trying to tell me something. I can hear desperation in her tone.

  ‘What about the house?’ I probe. There is no movement from the bed and when I think she must have fallen asleep, I hear a mumble. I lean down.

  ‘Something’s up. Go there.’ I wait while she catches her breath and tries to continue. ‘My phone.’ She turns her eyes, without moving her head, towards the bedside cabinet. I reach over and look at her phone. The screen is dark and the battery flat. When I turn round, I hear a very faint but light snoring. The medication has sent her into a more peaceful slumber and as I turn towards the door, I see Bob holding two paper cups and smell the welcome aroma of coffee as he approaches the bed.

  As I stretch out my hand to take a cup, I notice Adam in the background, watching us all with a faint curl to his lips. I’m not certain if it is because he is pleased with himself for having been on hand to help and curry favour with his reluctant wife, but I feel there is something else. His smile is forced, uneasy rather than victorious. His expression makes me edgy.

  Adam won’t be home until the morning. I reread his text telling me that Olive is comfortable and he will keep an eye on her. It’s well past midnight when I get back and as I park my car in the driveway, I turn towards the house across the road. The rain has died down but puddles dot the pavements. They look like treacherous broken shards of glass under the dull orange street lights. I replay in my mind Olive’s whispered words, the urgency of her tone telling me that something’s up.

  ‘The house for sale,’ she said. I take a few steps towards the little flower bed that sits proudly in the centre of Riverside Close. Before she took sick, Olive planted a few purple and white winter pansies to brighten up the space. It had previously lain barren due to neighbourly apathy and winter frosts.

  I skirt cautiously round and across to the other side of the road, shivering as I look towards the empty building which is deathly quiet, like all the other buildings. But the quietness in the empty house has a different timbre. The other houses beat gently with sleeping hearts, but this vacant shell is soulless. I peer through the windows at the front but everything is in darkness and there is a greasy film of dirt smeared across the panes.

  I’m about to go round to the rear of the house but hesitate, suddenly overcome by tiredness and something else. I feel brave enough at the front with the smoky street lights for company but something about the blackened silence a few yards further back makes me hold fast. I check my phone screen for messages, unsure what I am expecting to see at this time of night and decide that I’ll follow my instincts and call the police first thing in the morning. I’ll tell them that Olive was uneasy and suggest they ought to take a look. It might only be the musings of a sick woman.

  As I put the key in the lock, I look round for a last glance and notice the front gate at number four is open, swinging loosely on its hinges. It dawns on me that I didn’t need to open it to gain access. I’m certain Mr Herriott is religious in closing it after viewings but perhaps my mind is in overdrive. It has been a long night.

  I head up to bed, anxious and alert, but am so exhausted I fall into bed desperate for sleep.

  38

  Susan

  I can hear a knocking sound somewhere in the distance, somewhere far off but I can’t wake up. I am unable to move. I’m paralysed, like a coma victim, desperately willing myself to awaken. The ceiling overhead is listing from side to side, its blue tinted hues rippling like a restless ocean. I feel as if I’m being sucked downwards by an invisible current.

  I see a bottle of sleeping pills beside the bed with the lid off and I can make out several small white tablets strewn across the cabinet top. How many did I take? The rapping is getting louder, insistent. Where’s Roger? Why can’t I move? The room is spinning more violently and a gaping chasm has opened up in the floor, the carpet rent in two. I’m sinking further and further down; plunging to certain death.

  The curtain flaps against the window frame. This is the first thing I notice when I jolt back from the drug-induced nightmares. Roger must have left the window open again. He usually closes it when he leaves for work but I can’t remember him saying goodbye; I can’t remember either him coming to bed or leaving this morning.

  I manage to drag myself out of bed and pull on the jeans and sweatshirt from last night which are strewn across the chair before wrenching a brush through my tangled hair.

  In the bathroom I splash cold water over my face and neck in a vain attempt to wake up. My eyes are those of a madwoman, unstable and deranged. What’s happened to me?

  The knocking sound is back, and the gentle rap has increased in intensity and someone is banging heavily on the door.

  ‘Coming,’ I yell. ‘Coming.’ I stumble out of the bedroom and down the stairs. There’s no one in the house, school bags have disappeared from the hallway. Natalie was picking the children up this morning. Why wasn’t Roger taking them to school? I can’t remember. Before I open the front door, I know something isn’t right. Through the frosted glass I can see the hazy blue light of a police car. Tilly and Noah. Oh my god. This is my first thought. Something’s happened to the children.

  A rumpled middle-aged man is standing on the doorstep with his back to me. He turns round when I open the door.

  ‘Mrs Harper?’ he asks, holding up some form of identification. Perhaps he’s here to read the meters, the gas and electric. ‘Detective Inspector Ferran,’ he announces.

  ‘Yes. What is it? What’s up?’ My legs feel weak and my stomach is churning. I put my hand against the wall to steady myself.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asks before stepping into the hall without preamble. Over his shoulder I can see activity; police officers, a blue and white tape strapped along the length of the house next door. Why would Tilly and Noah have gone next door? Perhaps Roger was having a look around. I know it is bad news but I can’t work out what could possibly be wrong. I suddenly remember Roger’s announcement that Caroline Swinton has had an offer accepted on the house next door and a chill foreboding replaces my own personal traumas.

  ‘Is it the children?’ I don’t let the stranger past until he answers me. He’s like Columbo, the dishevelled TV cop, with his gaping raincoat revealing a dark shirt and sensible brown corduroy trousers. His brogues are muddied as if he has been walking in the rain but the sun is out.

  ‘No. Please don’t worry. It’s not your children. It’s something else.’ He seems to know that I’m suspecting death, building myself up to hysteria as he closes the door behind us and edges further into the house.

  ‘Is it Roger? My husband?’ Where’s Roger? Why didn’t he say goodbye, why did he leave the window open upstairs. My mind races and I can’t assimilate the facts.

  ‘We’re not sure at this point, Mrs Harper, but there’s been an incident next door,’ is all the detective says. I lead him into the kitchen and ask if he would like a cup of tea, coffee. For some reason I feel if I act normally things won’t be so bad and it might all turn out to be a big mistake. He might be here to ask casual questions about some matter totally unrelated to my family.

  ‘No thanks. If it’s all right I’d like to ask you a few questions. We’re knocking on all the doors in the close.’

  I put the kettle on anyway, cleaning up spilt milk from cereal bowls which are sitting half empty on the breakfast bar. Natalie wouldn’t have put them awa
y but Roger would have. I need to call him, speak to him. He might know what’s going on.

  The officer asks me to sit down and leads me to the table. Perhaps he wants me to identify my husband’s body? Perhaps I’m a suspect in some bizarre crime.

  ‘I’m DI Ferran, Mrs Harper,’ he repeats, then pauses as if this is a vital piece of information which I need to grasp. I stare at him, willing him to continue and to confirm that my husband is still alive.

  ‘There has been a death in the house next door and we suspect foul play,’ Ferran says. His eyebrows are like thick dark hairy caterpillars crawling slowly across his brow. His weathered skin has a deep red hue, hardened most likely by alcohol, but his eyes are like a hawk’s; sharp and focused. He scans the kitchen as if for clues.

  ‘Is it my husband?’

  ‘No. It’s not your husband but we can’t give out any more information at the moment; but rest assured, it’s not your husband.’ I slump back in the chair, relieved, and grip the coffee mug in both hands, willing myself to wake up. It’s not my husband, not my children but why do I feel so afraid? It’s something to do with the house next door, with its connection to Caroline and Vince, Jason, and their offer which was made to ensure it got taken off the market. What’s the connection?

  ‘We need to know your movements last night and if you saw anything unusual or suspicious. We’ll also need to talk to your husband as soon as possible.’ I wonder why they need to talk to Roger.

  ‘I went to bed early,’ I say but I’ve no idea of the time. Liberal use of sleeping pills might cause concern as to my state of mind. ‘It was probably around nine or ten o’clock. I’m not sure exactly.’