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 19

The first thing I notice when I come inside is that the baby has stopped crying. Is this a good thing or very bad indeed? The radio that lives by the sink is playing some sort of generic pop.

Lucas is not in the kitchen. I see the baby lying on the makeshift mat on the table, fast asleep, arms at right angles by his head. His tiny ribcage is rising and sucking inwards in that speeded-up way of the very young. It unnerved us so much when Ian and I were new parents.

Suddenly wrung out, I place the milk and nappies onto one of the kitchen surfaces. Then I lean my hands against the cool granite and try to catch my breath.

‘Why were you so long?’ Angel’s voice is whingey, behind me. ‘You were fucking ages. We were starting to think …’

‘I’m sorry, but there was a queue and then …’ I pause, ‘it just took longer than I expected, that’s all.’ I had been this close to saying I’d run into someone I know, but I’m sure that would be a mistake. I must try and appear calm in the hope that they will follow my lead and not do anything stupid.

‘Well, it felt like forever.’ Angel’s voice is quiet. ‘We had to put the radio on to stop it screaming. Thought you were never coming back.’

This seems to be entirely at odds with the calm scene before me and I shoot a look at her. But her head is down again, eyes plugged into the screen of her phone.

It looks as though Angel has been raiding the fridge in my absence, judging by the mess of bread, cheese, houmous and ham at the other end of the table. A knife has fallen out of the houmous and left a slick smear on the surface.

Angel licks her fingers and stares back at me.

I turn away, realizing I will have to sterilize the bottle all over again to feed the baby. I’d forgotten what a faff it is, feeding infants. But thank God for the milk.

I go to the kettle and switch it on. It’s all so long ago, when I could do this stuff in my sleep. More or less did, sometimes.

The radio burbles on in the background. It is a local station; one which Sam likes because one of the morning DJs makes him laugh. I get a sudden, vivid mental picture of my son shovelling in Weetabix and giggling like a maniac at the kind of high jinx I find irritating first thing in the day. This sends a spasm of pain through me and I think, At least he’s not here. It’s some small comfort.

Lucas coughs, from the sitting room, I think, and we both glance in that direction. Angel’s expression is soft, but there’s something else there too. Fear? It’s hard to tell.

‘You’re very close, aren’t you?’ I say gently. Angel’s gaze snaps back to me, suspicion tightening her face again. ‘I mean, you’re lucky,’ I add quickly. ‘Lucky to have that relationship.’

Angel gives a bitter laugh then her face becomes serious again as though mulling these words over more carefully.

I press on. ‘Not all siblings are like that, you know. I have nothing in common with my brother at all.’

This is true. Steve is a successful insurance broker who lives in a virtual mansion in Wimbledon. He has a long-term girlfriend called Clare, who always looks as though she has a bad smell under her nose. We only meet at Christmas at Dad’s place in Yorkshire, or at family weddings. I don’t think about him much in my everyday life.

At first it seems that Angel is not going to reply but then she finally responds.

‘Had to be,’ she says quietly. ‘No one else to look out for us.’

Wondering how far I dare go with this, I lean back against the sink and regard Angel, who has a faraway look.

‘What about your mum and dad?’ I say, after a moment. I immediately think I’ve blown it because Angel looks at me with narrowed eyes. Then she sighs deeply and yawns unselfconsciously, revealing surprisingly white teeth.

‘You don’t want to know,’ she says. I can feel the moment slipping away, but I soften my voice and try again.

‘Look, Angel, I can tell that you are a good person,’ I lie. ‘After all, you saved my bloody life earlier!’ My forced laugh falls flat in the atmosphere of the room. But I press on. ‘You must know this baby needs to be with his mother, or his father. I don’t know what has happened and, honestly, I don’t even want to know. But why don’t you two get on your way and leave the baby here with me? I can take him to the police and say I found him on my doorstep or something. I won’t tell them anything about you or Lucas.’

Even as I’m saying it, I know how lame it sounds.

Angel pulls at her bottom lip and appears to be listening, though. My pulse quickens at the thought of this ending easily; safely. I picture myself telling people about it all after the event; my weird night as a hostage in my own home. What a story it will be.

‘It’s all too late for that,’ says Angel, rubbing at a crumb on the table with her finger, eyes cast down again. Disappointment cuts deep and we both go quiet.

On the radio, the station goes to the hour and the local news comes on. I’m only half listening when the presenter starts to speak.

Then it is as though every inch of my skin has been electrified.

‘Police are asking for witnesses,’ says the sombre female voice, ‘after the vicious murder of a young mother in the Foxbury area of Redholt this evening and the kidnap of her six-week-old baby. The twenty-eight-year-old woman was stabbed multiple times. If you have any information about this please call 0333 563334.’ There’s a pause and then, ‘Now for traffic news … ’

Angel lunges to switch off the radio and turns to me. I can hardly breathe.

She turns to me and her expression darkens when she registers the horror in mine.

‘Don’t you dare judge him,’ Angel hisses through teeth that are almost clenched. ‘Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t know him. You don’t know anything at all.’