Читать книгу The Escape: The gripping, twisty thriller from the #1 bestseller - C.L. Taylor, C.L. Taylor, C. L. Taylor - Страница 11

I should never have threatened Max, but I just wanted him to stop. I’d never seen him that out of control before. I begged him to calm down but it was like he couldn’t hear me, or our daughter whimpering upstairs, and so I told him that, if I moved away, he’d be lucky if he ever saw Elise again.

He froze. He stopped still in the middle of the room and he stared. Not at me. Not at the broken picture frames lying on the rug. At nothing. Then he said, ‘Elise is crying. I’ll go and check she’s OK,’ and he stalked out of the room before I could object, leaving me in a sea of smashed glass and splintered wood.

As Max’s footsteps clump-clump-clumped on the landing above me and the low rumble of his voice drifted down the stairs, I rolled onto my hands and knees, gritting my teeth as I forced myself up and onto my feet. He was halfway down the stairs by the time I got to the living-room door. In his right hand was his black sports bag.

‘Max,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Can’t we just talk about—’

He walked straight past me, opened the front door and then looked back. His eyes were so filled with pain and hurt it took my breath away.

‘Mummy,’ Elise says now as I hobble across the kitchen to the cupboard near the sink where we keep our medicine. ‘Mummy, back owie?’

‘Yes, sweetheart. Mummy’s back’s still hurting.’ I root around the boxes of plasters, Calpol and indigestion tablets but the strongest painkillers we have are a couple of paracetamol.

I swallow them with a glass of water then take Elise’s plate from the table and drop it into the sink, then swipe at the jam on the front of her top with a damp dishcloth. I would change her but it’s taken me so long to do the simplest thing this morning and we’re already running fifteen minutes late.

Somehow I manage to wrestle my daughter into her shoes and coat and out the front door. As I do, the door to number 35 opens and our next-door neighbour Naija appears, walking backwards as she attempts to wrestle her huge double buggy out of the house and onto the path.

‘They’re doing my head in,’ she says, gesturing towards her eighteen-month-old twin boys who are red-faced and screaming. ‘I can’t wait until we go on holiday next week.’

‘I can imagine. I remember when—’ I break off mid-sentence.

Someone’s watching us. I can sense it, even without turning my head.

And there she is, Paula, standing on the corner of my street staring straight at us.

‘Naija, can you keep an eye on Elise for a second?’ I reach down and attempt to lift my daughter over the low wall that separates our front gardens but, as I do, my back spasms violently and I wince. I see a flash of amusement on Paula’s face and then she’s off, walking down the street towards Wells Road.

‘It’s OK.’ Naija reaches for Elise and lifts her over the wall. As soon as she’s in her arms I take off, hobbling down the path.

‘Paula!’ I try to run but I can’t stand up straight. Instead I half rock, half gallop along the pavement, gritting my teeth against the pain. It seems to take for ever to reach the corner and, as I turn it, my heart sinks. She’ll be long gone. An eighty-year-old could outrun me today.

‘Paul—’

I stop sharply. Paula is standing right in front of me, her hands in the pockets of her black padded jacket, her high-heeled feet planted wide. I would have ploughed straight into her if I hadn’t stopped so quickly, but she doesn’t jolt or step backwards as I draw up next to her. Her kohl-lined eyes flick from the top of my head to the scuffed Clarks shoes on my feet, and then rest on my arm, twisted behind me, my hand on my lower back.

‘Hello, Jo.’ The top half of her face doesn’t move as her lips curl up into a smile.

‘What are you doing here?’

Her fixed smile doesn’t slip. ‘My son lives here. I told you.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘Doesn’t he?’ She tilts her head to one side. Her mascara-loaded eyelashes unblinking. Her cold, blue eyes fixed on mine. ‘That’s strange. I could have sworn I just came from his house.’

‘What number does he live at?’

She glances up Wells Road towards the small crowd assembled at the bus stop a couple of metres away. A woman with her child glances quickly away, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping on our conversation, but an elderly woman continues to stare. Paula makes eye contact with her, tilts her head towards me and rolls her eyes. She may as well make twirling circles with her index finger whilst pointing at her temple.

Further down Brecknock Road, Naija is still standing outside her house, one hand on the buggy, the other clutching Elise. When she sees me looking, she lifts a hand from the buggy and holds it out, palm upturned. What’s going on? Paula shifts position. She’s watching them too.

‘Leave us alone,’ I hiss. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want but if you don’t stay away from us I’ll call the police.’

Paula leans in so close I can smell cigarettes on her breath. ‘And tell them what, Jo?’

I react instinctively, pressing my palms against her horrible shiny jacket and shoving her away from me. ‘Leave us alone!’

‘Oooh.’ She looks back towards the bus stop. Now everyone is staring at us, their jaws agape. ‘That was assault!’ She looks back at me. ‘I think the bloke in the black coat is going to call the police. He’s got his mobile out, look.’

I don’t look. I’m so angry I’m shaking.

‘Just leave,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Just leave me alone.’

‘I will when your husband returns what he took.’

‘He didn’t take anything from you. He doesn’t even know who you are!’

‘Doesn’t he?’ A slow smile creeps onto her face. ‘He would tell you that, wouldn’t he?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just tell him to return my property, Jo,’ she says as she turns to leave.

‘Why me?’ I shout after her as her high heels clip-clop on the pavement. ‘Why not talk to Max?’

She turns back and there it is, the same tight-lipped, narrow-eyed look she gave me in my car. ‘Because you’re more fun, Jo.‘