Читать книгу Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood - Cass Green, Cass Green - Страница 18

The air is pleasantly warm outside, but shock must be catching up with me. I start to shake, so hard my knees almost give way, and I’m forced to stop, panting lightly, hands resting on my thighs.

I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all so surreal. Her barging into my home like that. Then him arriving, covered in blood. And that tiny baby … Oh, the baby.

As the shivering becomes less violent, I start to walk, glancing over at the cars on the bypass, which are present even at this time. I wish I could get into any one of them and be carried far away from this situation.

I could do it. Or at least flag down a car and ask for help. But what if the police go storming in there and the baby gets caught up in it all?

I picture again the blood riming Lucas’s nails and think about his reaction when I’d asked about the mother. What has he done? And what might he be capable still of doing? That’s not even taking Angel into account. She feels utterly unreadable to me.

It’s a strange sensation, to be walking away, ostensibly free, but yet trapped all the same. I hurry on, reaching the dark part of the road, and then follow the bobbing light of the torch. The road feels so long in the dark. Like it is never-ending. I would usually be scared, walking here at night. But I only feel frightened of the dangers currently in my home. What an irony it would be, if I was attacked tonight, of all nights.

When I finally reach the end of the road, I turn left at the roundabout there and start walking along the side of the bypass. Obviously, it isn’t designed for pedestrians, so I am forced to walk in a semi-ditch at the side. Cars thunder past now and then, so close I feel the gusting force blowing into me. I’ve never walked along here before; never had any reason to. My heart leaps every time a car passes. I’m intensely conscious of my breakable body, so close to speeding weapons of steel and rubber.

The long, wet grass whips and clings at my lower legs and my shoes are soon soaked through.

I wonder whether a police car would stop if I was seen walking along such a dangerous road. It might even be an offence. I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from blurting out the whole sorry story, if they did pull over.

I turn my ankle in a hidden dip in the grass and swear. Sweating from both effort and stress, I finally see the welcoming lights of the garage ahead. It seems no distance in a car but it’s much further than I realized. I look at my watch and hasten my pace.

Thank goodness, the garage is on this side. Hopefully I can get in and out, quickly.

It’s surprisingly busy, for the middle of the night. But this road is a main artery leading, ultimately, to London, so I guess the traffic never stops.

There are two cars and one van filling up as I emerge onto the forecourt, blinking at the sudden harsh lighting. The normality of it, white light reflecting off wet car roofs, a man yawning widely as he walks briskly from the pumps, a snatch of grime music drifting from an open car window, brings sudden tears to my eyes. I have a fervent longing to go back to my life before tonight. It seemed so complicated, but it was so simple, really. Why did I complain? Things weren’t so bad, were they?

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a hot urge to run into the centre of the forecourt and yell at the top of my lungs, ‘I’m a hostage! I need help!’

But even as I picture myself doing it, another image comes to mind: the outline of the gun in Angel’s pocket. Even if she wouldn’t actively hurt the baby, I picture her panicking and dropping him onto the stone floor, his unfinished skull cracking like an eggshell. This thought makes me shudder and I hurry to the cashpoint first, which is located outside the shop. But my hands shake and I fumble the PIN number. There’s a second of total panic that I can’t remember it. The thought of going back with no cash makes the world spin for a moment until the four digits float, blessedly, into my mind. I tap them in and opt for three hundred and fifty pounds in cash.

This done, I enter the shop and scan the shelves for baby products. The section is small and there are only nappies for ages three to six months and toddlers. Even the smallest packet is going to swamp that tiny body. But they will have to do.

When I spy the small selection of ready-prepared formula milks, including two cartons for new-borns, I feel quite weak with relief. A thought floats into my head from nowhere and I pause, then realize how ridiculous it was. For a moment there, I had worried about giving the baby formula when he may be conditioned to his mother’s breast. As if that was important, now.

Who is his mother? This question keeps coming to me, over and over again. What happened to her? Why did Lucas have blood on his hands?

Have to focus. I place both cartons in my basket, then grab a Snickers bar, suddenly craving a hit of sugar. Maybe it will stop me from shaking. I look around, anxiously, sure I am conspicuous, that eyes are roaming and picking over me, even though I know logically that people are just going about their business, bleary with fatigue and their own problems.

When I join the short queue, I become aware of a commotion.

There is only one till, where two girls are arguing with a middle-aged man in a Sikh turban.

The white girl has blonde hair in a ponytail so tight that her thickly mascaraed eyes almost bulge from her face. She is in a skimpy dress, stretched tight over rounded hips and thighs. Her black friend is almost bursting out of jeans and a crop top that finishes above a roll of flesh. Her hair is dyed a brassy ginger with a heavy fringe almost meeting her eyelids.

‘Yeah but what’s your problem?’ says the white girl. ‘There’s no need to give us all this fucking grief, is there?’

‘You get out of here with your filthy mouth,’ says the garage attendant in a raised voice. ‘I’m not selling you cigarettes without ID.’

‘Didn’t we just give you that, towel-head?’ says the black girl and she and her friend dissolve into giggles that make them sound five years younger than they look.

The man behind the counter is shouting now.

‘You give me your fake bloody ID and I give you a trip in a police car! You think you like that, hn? Get out of here, you little sluts, before I call the police. And stop doing that!’

‘You sexually harassing us?’ says the white girl, who is now holding up a mobile phone in a silver sparkly case. ‘I need evidence.’

I shift from foot to foot, uneasily. Please don’t call the police. Please let this nightmare end so I can get out of here.

There are three other people in the queue: a young man who is studiously avoiding getting involved by staring into his phone screen, an elderly woman clutching a loaf of bread and some beans, and a suited man about my age, sighing with irritation. The old lady casts her eyes around and tuts at intervals. She throws a few disgruntled looks at the man behind her but this obviously doesn’t satisfy her because she then manages to snag my gaze before I can avoid it.

‘Disgusting way for girls to behave,’ she says. I nod briskly and look away, out at the forecourt, which now has a queue of cars forming at the pumps.

‘Shut your mouth, you old cow,’ says one of the girls as they barrel past, laughing hysterically.

Several more people now join the queue.

Anxiety throbs in my veins. How long have I been gone? Glancing at my watch, I see it is now 3.35. The thought of the baby’s hunger and distress tears at me. It is literally unbearable to think about. I find I’m tapping my foot against the floor, unable to stay still.

The old woman is at the till now. She is clearly a regular because she is asking after the health of several people whose names I don’t catch as the man rings through her purchases. He still looks ruffled after his altercation with the girls but dutifully answers all her questions, finally managing a small smile.

The woman is about to pay when she says, ‘Oh, give me one of those Instant Lottos, Ajay. Bloody waste of money, but you never know. I quite fancy a little trip to the Bahamas, don’t you?’

Ajay joshes along with her now as he painstakingly selects the scratch card and rings it in. All this seems to take an agonizing amount of time. It takes everything I have not to scream, ‘Come on!’ until my throat aches.

Finally, the old woman is done. As she moves past on her way to the door, she shoots me a curious look. Is it obvious that something is going on with me? Can everyone tell? I feel as if my anxiety is leaking through me like visible steam. Maybe you’d get burned if you stood too close.

The man in front is served quickly and, finally, I’m able to place my purchases next to the till, sighing with a mixture of relief and impatience.

‘Any petrol for you today?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Just these things.’ There’s a clock just behind the man serving and, on seeing it, my heart speeds up again. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get back to meet Angel’s deadline. Flustered, I miss the man asking if I would like a carrier bag the first time. He repeats the question and, blushing, I accept, before handing over my debit card.

‘Contactless alright for you?’

‘Yes.’ God, yes! Just bloody hurry!

After what seems like half an hour in there, I am out of the door. I turn to cross the forecourt and go back to the main road when someone touches my arm.

‘Mrs Bailey?’

With a start, I turn to find myself looking into the fresh, smiling face of a teenage girl. Familiar, but her name is just out of reach.

‘It’s me,’ says the girl, ‘Hannah Bannerman? You taught me English last year?’

‘Hi Hannah,’ I force the words out, painfully. ‘Bit late to be out, isn’t it?’

My brain is turning over and over. Is bumping into someone a sign that I should tell someone what is happening to me?

Hannah, who is looking at me a little uncertainly now, says, ‘We’re going on holiday. Catching an early flight to Paris.’

She is now joined by an older woman, who looks like the horsier, wider, version of Hannah in about thirty years’ time. The blonde-haired, Barbour-jacketed woman is smiling broadly at me. I picture myself climbing into the back of some huge SUV and being cradled by it all the way to the police station. The decision is taken from my hands.

‘Oh, are you the famous Mrs Bailey?’ she says in a loud voice. ‘I believe we have you to thank for Hannah’s A star last year, don’t we, Hannah?’ Her voice seems to thunder in my ears.

Hannah grins and nods enthusiastically.

‘Hannah is at Warwick now,’ says her mother, ‘and she’s having a great time, aren’t you, darling?’

‘I’m having the best time,’ says Hannah, drawling the word ‘best’.

I’m nodding along and trying to smile but I can’t think of a single word in response. What can I say? ‘Lovely to see you, only, I have a hostage situation back at my house and a tiny baby might be in danger. Bye then!’ Normal etiquette seems to have entirely abandoned me. Being with two unhinged misfits all night has somehow robbed me of my own manners.

Both of the other women are looking at me oddly now, clearly expecting a response. Casting about inside myself, I finally find something to toss back at them.

‘That’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘That’s absolutely wonderful to hear. And a holiday! In Provence!’ I realize straight away I’ve said the wrong place, but they are too polite to correct me. When a sufficient number of seconds have passed, I say, ‘Well, I’d best …’ but Hannah is holding onto my arm again, blushing slightly.

‘I just want to say that I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss. You really helped me through … well, you know.’

I stare back blankly and a strange expression passes over Hannah’s face, a kind of disappointed horror. Then it comes to me and I feel sick for forgetting.

Hannah’s dad died at the beginning of Year Thirteen and for a while the talented student had, understandably, lost her focus. I lost my own mum in my teens and so I just got it. I spent a lot of time talking to Hannah after lessons and gently encouraging her not to throw away her opportunities.

‘God, yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I—’

From nowhere, tears bead my eyelids. I try to blink them away, but the two people in front of me fracture into a watery blur. The memory of Hannah’s distress, coupled with the heartfelt thanks, are more than my bruised emotions can handle right now.

‘Are you alright?’ says Hannah’s mother. She must now notice the nappies bulging in the thin carrier bag because she bursts out with, ‘You’ve not had … a baby?’

This is it. This is the moment to tell them.

But I can’t do it. I can’t risk harm coming to that innocent child because I’m not brave or strong enough to help him. I’m all that little boy has right now. I take a small breath in before speaking again.

‘No, dear me, no!’ My attempt to sound chirpy and friendly comes across as shrill and deranged now. ‘But my, er … my … friend is staying. In fact, I’d better get back! It’s been so good to see you, Hannah! And you too, Mrs …’ but it’s no good, the surname has gone again, ‘and you too.’

I hurry across the forecourt before either of them have the chance to detain me any longer, feeling their curious eyes on me as I go. They must be wondering where the hell my car is too.

I know I’ve come across as a total fruitcake, but I have no time to worry about that now. Two damaged, possibly violent people are currently in charge of a tiny, innocent life. At their very best, they are rough and incompetent, even if they aren’t about to inflict any deliberate damage. Heaven knows how they are coping with the screaming, which must surely be getting worse as hunger bites deeper. All the very worst stories about child cruelty on the news tickertape through my mind now; babies with burns, babies with tiny broken limbs, babies in bins …

I start to run.

My breath is tight in my chest and my skin bathed in sweat in the muggy air as I get to the roundabout and negotiate my way back to Four Hays. Carl bobs into my head and I picture him running alongside me with precise, economic strides. It does not help.

And now my stupid, stupid brain is unhelpfully filing another thought: Ian jogging alongside Sam the first time Sam rode his bike without stabilizers at the bottom of this road. Why think of that now, for God’s sake? But I can see it so clearly; the pale pink blossom from the apple tree in our garden blowing in the breeze like confetti, Sam’s delighted shrieks of, ‘Look at me! Look at me, Daddy!’ The shared look of love between Ian and me. The memory has a honeyed, golden glow. It’s pleasure and pain all mixed together and I cling to it as I slow down.

My knees ache and I can’t get my breath, so I stop and walk; small, panicked sobs punctuating my gasps as I struggle to fill my unfit lungs with air.

It feels like someone has played a terrible joke and made my road, so familiar I notice the tiniest change in vegetation over the seasons, twice as long as usual. But at last I see the lights of my home and force a last surge of energy to get myself to the back door, where I hammer the flat of my hand against the wood, almost doubled-over with exhaustion.

The door flies open and Angel stands there, looking down at me.

‘Took your time,’ she snaps, eyes flashing with fury.