The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  When Jake comes back down, the chicken is plated, the juices poured over the top of the breasts to keep them from drying out. I carry the plates through and put them on the table.

  ‘Dinner time!’ I call with a brightness I don’t feel, gesturing for Jake’s parents to take a seat at the table. Jim grins.

  ‘Looks good,’ he says, clapping his hands together. He opens the wine and pours everyone a glass, leaving his own empty, then sits down opposite me.

  Jake takes the seat between us, reaching out for the bowl and piling salad on his plate. ‘Good day?’ he asks his mother, looking at her as he passes the bowl to Jim. I sip my wine, enjoying the rich taste, while Judith starts droning on about her book club again.

  Jake cuts off a piece of chicken and shoves it in his mouth, nodding along to his mother’s words. ‘This is lovely,’ he says to me when Judith pauses for breath, his mouth full, pointing at his plate with his fork. I give a small smile, adding a splotch of mayonnaise to the side of my own plate.

  ‘Good,’ I reply, and take a small bite of my chicken. It is nice, if I say so myself. I pick up my glass and realise it’s half empty. Jim notices too and reaches over to top me up. I lift my glass in thanks.

  ‘So then, Jakey,’ Judith continues, and I cringe. Jakey. I’ve always hated that nickname. ‘What have you been up to at work? Busy as usual?’ She smiles widely, spearing a piece of rocket with her fork.

  I’m not sure I really understand what Jake’s job entails. He often works away, travelling around the UK and Europe, and I’m pretty sure it’s something to do with marketing, but I have no idea what he actually does.

  He speaks through a mouthful of food. ‘I had a meeting with a big potential client a few days ago, went really well. Then we all went out for steak at this fancy club.’

  ‘Club?’ Jim asks, raising an eyebrow. Jake laughs.

  ‘Yeah, not a nightclub; more like those old clubs in Victorian London, full of middle-class men drinking brandy and smoking cigars.’

  ‘And getting away from their wives,’ I joke, and for a moment Jake’s eyes tighten, but then he laughs again.

  ‘Yeah, that too.’

  The rest of the meal passes quietly, with little small talk. I drink two more glasses of wine, enjoying how easily they go down. Jake scrapes his plate, then goes back for more salad.

  ‘Any dessert?’ he asks, and I can’t help but smile.

  ‘You’re still hungry?’

  He chuckles. ‘I’m a growing boy!’

  ‘Me too!’ Jim chimes in. Judith just tuts.

  ‘There are chocolate puddings in the fridge; those Gü things.’ I look at Judith’s pursed lips. ‘None for you?’ I ask sweetly. She shakes her head.

  ‘I’m watching my figure, dear,’ she says, her lips turning up in what might be considered a sneer. I ignore her unspoken meaning: maybe you should do the same.

  ‘Oh yeah, I love those,’ Jake says, pulling out his phone as I stand and collect the plates. Jim gets up too, picking up the salad bowl before I can stop him. We go into the kitchen and I take out the dessert while Jim opens the dishwasher.

  ‘Oh, leave that,’ I say quickly, flashing him a smile. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll bring these through in a minute.’ I check the packaging for instructions, then pop the puddings into the microwave. While I wait, I rinse the plates and start loading the dishwasher. When the microwave beeps, I put the puddings on plates and take them into the living room.

  ‘Thanks!’ Jim says delightedly, looking down at his plate. ‘This looks perfect.’ Jake doesn’t say anything as I put his in front of him.

  I pause in the doorway. ‘More tea? Judith?’

  ‘I’d love a coffee,’ she says, pushing away from the table and settling herself back on the sofa. ‘Black, one sugar.’ As if I’ve never made coffee for her before. I suppress a sigh and go back into the kitchen, grabbing my glass of wine and gulping it down while the kettle boils.

  While the dishwasher is going, I wipe the kitchen counters, mopping up spillages with a paper towel. I spray eco-friendly antibacterial cleaner across the worktops, rubbing with a cloth until they shine. The sun is setting outside the kitchen window, shadows growing longer across the grass. Soon my solar lights will awaken, sparkling amongst the stones in the front garden. Those lights were a housewarming gift from Judith, presented in beautiful gold wrapping paper. Was she kinder to me back then? Did she ever like me, ever think me good enough for her perfect son? Then I remember her words, her voice hushed as she spoke to Jim across the table in their grand dining room. We were still living with them, a year or so away from buying this house, and I had never managed to shake the feeling that I was an unwelcome guest.

  ‘Well, she did start that fire.’ I stopped suddenly in the doorway, on my way back from the toilet, her words hitting me like a blow.

  ‘It was an accident, Judith.’ Jim’s calm voice filtered through the open doorway. ‘She was ten.’

  ‘Yes, well, above the age of criminal responsibility,’ Judith sniffed, and I padded away, crossing silently to our bedroom, my cheeks aflame.

  I drain my wine glass and place it next to the sink. The dishwasher lets out a gurgle as I go back into the living room.

  ‘Was that good?’ I ask, amused to find both pudding pots scraped clean. Jim nods and smiles. ‘Jake?’ I say quietly. I can hear faint music coming from his phone.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yeah, great, thanks,’ he says after a beat.

  ‘Do you want coffee?’

  ‘No, ta.’

  I roll my eyes at the back of his head and return to the temporary sanctuary of the kitchen.

  Jake’s parents leave after another hour, Judith kissing his cheeks and ignoring me as usual. Soon Jake and I are back in the living room, sitting in our usual places on the sofa. I don’t know what to do on evenings like this. I rarely spend time with Jake these days; we don’t have the same taste in TV, or even the same method of watching. I prefer to binge-watch, devouring episode after episode on Netflix, while Jake likes to space them out. I realise I can’t remember the last thing we watched together. I wander back into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, opening the dishwasher door to let the steam out.

  ‘I’m going to put the footie on,’ Jake says, leaning in the kitchen doorway. I jump, clattering the spoon against the side of the mug. He frowns. ‘I thought you stopped taking sugar in your tea?’

  ‘Oh, uh, yeah, I…’

  ‘A moment on the lips, and all that.’ He pats his flat stomach, winking. ‘Mum asked if you were pregnant earlier. No such luck, I told her.’

  I can feel a flush creeping up my neck. I glance down at my stomach, the fabric of my dress clinging to the flesh beneath. I turn away as Jake wanders off into the living room. A few seconds later, the unmistakable sounds of a football match blare out of the TV. I add a third spoonful of sugar to my tea, sticking a finger up at my husband through the wall.

  I decide to sit outside in the fading light, in an attempt to get away from Jake and the too-loud TV. I grab my Kindle and cigarettes and walk through the living room and out of the patio doors, closing them firmly behind me.

  The novel I’m in the middle of is a horror story, not a genre I usually pick. I feel my pulse quicken as I read about the house on a remote Scottish island, and the woman who appears to haunt it. For an hour, I’m lost in the story, my tea growing cold beside me.

  The door opens suddenly behind me, and I jump, dropping my lit cigarette.

  ‘How many have you had?’ Jake nods at the cigarette rolling across the paving. I retrieve it and stub it out in the ashtray at my elbow.

  ‘Two,’ I lie.

  ‘Hmm.’ I can tell without turning around that his lips are pursed. I fling the cold tea in a nearby bush, then gather up my things. Jake remains where he is, blocking the way. ‘They’re no good for you,’ he says, crossing his arms. I lift a shoulder, trying to appear nonchalant.

  ‘I know. I don’t have many.’

  He eventuall
y moves aside, letting me into the house. He pulls the door closed and locks it.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he announces to my retreating back. I know what that means. When he goes to bed, I do too. But I don’t stay there.

  ‘I’ll just grab a glass of water,’ I say, resigned.

  I fill a glass from the filter jug in the fridge, taking a long sip. Jake thunders up the stairs, goes into the bathroom. I can hear his electric toothbrush buzzing as I rifle through my handbag, digging my fingers into the hidden compartment, a rip in the fabric. I pull out a small package of pills, popping one and swallowing it deftly before hiding them again. I tell the Echo in the hallway to turn the lights off; they fade as I pad up the stairs, bare feet silent against the carpet.

  Three

  Beth

  Beth trudges up the hill, breathing hard. She hates that bloody hill, especially after a long shift. Her feet ache, her head is throbbing. She clutches her handbag and pushes herself to the top.

  Finally the path evens out and her breathing returns to normal. She glances to her right, at the new houses. They’re not really new; she remembers them being built, when she was eight or nine. She used to play on the building site, together with the kids she went to school with. She’s surprised the school is still there, nestled in the middle of Gallows Hill.

  Beth is twenty-seven now, though she feels older.

  As she passes on the opposite side of the road, she wonders which house Isla lives in. She wonders how many bedrooms her house has, and whether there’s a garden. Did Beth play as a child in the ruins of the earth where Isla’s house now sits?

  Shaking her head, she faces forward once more and carries on towards home. As she passes the roundabout, a vision of that night flashes behind her eyes: the man lying in the road, blood pooling around his head. She tries to picture Isla instead, piecing the fragments of that night together in her mind. Isla with her long curls, her silky dress floating out behind her. Her pumps barely made a sound as she ran across the road to where Beth knelt beside the man. Beth remembers wondering where she had come from, this softly spoken, almost ethereal woman. She remembers seeing her in the restaurant earlier that evening, catching her eyes sliding away from what her husband was doing. She had seen, Beth was certain.

  She turns into her road. The shop is dark, a small bicycle abandoned outside its door. One of the local kids, no doubt. The street lights are off; it’s late, her neighbours are asleep. But Beth isn’t afraid. She’s walked these streets for twenty-seven years, day and night. She wonders if Kyle will be asleep when she gets in. She hopes he is.

  She unlocks the main door and looks up at the stairs in dismay. Her flat is on the top floor, across the hall from where she grew up, and there’s no lift, never has been. She remembers her mum bumping the buggy down the flights of stairs, Beth jerking with every step. She always feared she would fall out, but she never did. She feels the grief wash over her as it always does, even now, almost ten years after her mum died.

  Sighing, she begins to climb the stairs. The stairway is dimly lit, and cold, much colder than the air outside. She finally reaches her flat and fumbles with the key, eventually getting it in the lock. She pushes the door open, the creaking hinges making her wince. But her neighbours are used to her late hours.

  The TV flickers in the living room, the sound of gunfire blaring from the speakers, making her jump. She throws down her bag in the hallway, kicks off her shoes, then wanders into the living room to find Kyle and his friend Steve playing the Xbox. Smoke lies heavy in the air; Beth notices that the windows are closed, despite the heat. The smell of weed hits her in the face as she crosses the living room to push open a window.

  ‘Hey!’ Steve exclaims, not taking his eyes off the TV. ‘We’re hotboxing.’

  ‘Not in my flat you ain’t,’ Beth says irritably. She pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘It fucking stinks in here.’

  ‘Smells good,’ Kyle says, an inane grin on his face. His eyes are bloodshot.

  Empty crisp packets litter the floor; an ashtray balanced on the arm of the sofa is overflowing. Kyle picks up a can of Monster and gulps noisily. He lets out a huge burp, and Steve fist-bumps him.

  Beth thinks of Isla as she crosses the room once again, imagining the beautiful curtains that must adorn her windows, the plush carpets, the shiny surfaces. Kyle and Steve peer around her at the TV, mashing the controllers manically.

  ‘Did I get any parcels today?’ Beth asks from the kitchen doorway. She ordered new shoes almost two weeks ago; she’d saved up for months, her current ones falling to shreds before her eyes. She briefly wonders where Isla shops. When Kyle doesn’t respond, she barks, ‘Kyle!’ He jumps, and finally looks at her with red, watery eyes. ‘Parcels? For me?’

  ‘Erm, nah,’ he says, turning his attention back to the game. Steve cracks open another can of energy drink, spilling some on the carpet. Beth sighs and turns away. In the kitchen, she fills the kettle, then stands with her hands pressed against the sticky counter, her head slumped forward. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply: in, one two three, out, one two three. The kettle roars to life behind her. She opens the cupboard to find there are no clean mugs; the sink is full, overflowing with dirty dishes.

  Rather than asking Kyle why he didn’t clean up while she was at work, she quickly washes up a mug and makes herself a cup of tea. She’s too tired for this, for him. She cracks open the kitchen window and stands there, leaning against the counter, smoking, sipping her tea.

  Beth’s mind is stuck on Isla. The view from her kitchen shows the estate across the road; she can see the tops of roofs, garden fences, swings in back gardens. She wonders what Isla is doing at this time of night. Is she out walking again? Or is she tucked up in her soft, warm bed, snuggled up with her husband, dreaming of a holiday to Thailand or Florida or Italy?

  Beth has never been out of Hertfordshire, except for the odd trip to London. She’s certainly never had a holiday. She met Kyle at primary school; she remembers the fuzzy black hair that he used to let her – but only her – run her hands over. He had blazing dark eyes, and this childish curiosity that she found fascinating, but that inevitably disappeared with time, with experience. He always seemed to have a book in his hand, Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. He was a regular at the town library. She hasn’t seen him pick up a book in the years they’ve been together.

  She wonders how long Isla and Jake have been together. They must be about the same age as Beth, but were they childhood sweethearts like her and Kyle? Or did they meet later, at some posh university or fancy restaurant? Beth pictures Isla in her graduation gown, with her perfect hair and manicured nails and low heels. Tasteful, classy. Not like Beth.

  ‘B?’ Kyle calls from the living room. She frowns; she hates that nickname. She extinguishes her cigarette in a dirty mug full of water, then sticks her head out of the doorway. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can you grab me a chocolate bar?’

  Beth sighs, then turns back and opens the cupboard. It’s empty except for a few tins of beans, chopped tomatoes, a box of boil-in-the-bag rice.

  ‘There aren’t any,’ she calls back. She hears him say, ‘Aw, what?’ but she ignores him. She opens another cupboard: empty. The next one has some packets of ready salted crisps and a box of Coco Pops. She bends down to inspect the fridge, which looks almost as sad as the cupboards. A half-empty pint of milk stands in the door, next to a carton of orange juice. A lone apple sits on the middle shelf, browning on one side. Half an onion, wrapped in cling film, an open packet of ham that smells off, and three cans of Monster.

  ‘I thought you were going shopping today,’ she says, straightening up and kicking the fridge door closed.

  ‘Was I?’ Kyle says distractedly.

  ‘Yes.’ Beth closes her eyes, tries to slow her breathing. ‘Can you go tomorrow, please?’

  ‘Yep,’ he says, and she opens her eyes to see Steve elbow him in the side.

  ‘Yeah, Kyle,’ he teases.

 
‘Fuck off,’ Kyle laughs, then he leaps to his feet. ‘Ha! That’s what you get!’ Steve looks at the TV, where the body of his videogame character lies dead, then glares at Kyle.

  ‘Twat,’ he mutters, taking a slurp of his drink.

  Beth puts her empty mug with the rest of the dirty dishes, and reaches up to close the kitchen window.

  ‘Can you clean the bloody flat tomorrow as well? It’s a shithole.’

  ‘Yep,’ Kyle repeats dully.

  Lazy prick, she thinks. She wants to scream at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she says instead, flicking the kitchen light off. ‘Keep it down, yeah?’

  Neither of the men – boys – respond. Beth goes into her bedroom and slams the door, then flops onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. She should brush her teeth, maybe even have a shower, but she can’t be bothered to get up again. Still lying down, she strips off her work uniform, bringing the shirt to her nose. It doesn’t smell too bad; it’ll do for another day. She wriggles into her faded pyjamas, then gets under the covers. The sheets give off a stale odour; she wrinkles her nose, but she isn’t going to get up and change them now. She puts her phone on charge, sets the alarm for eleven, then rifles through her bedside drawer for her pill. She swallows it dry, grimacing. Through the wall, she can still hear Kyle and Steve laughing, gunfire a constant drone in the background. She rolls over, pulling the sheet over her head, and closes her eyes.

  Beth jerks awake, mouth dry, heart pounding. Something is wrong. Her mind is still cloudy with sleep; it races to catch up with her other senses. Something is pressing against her thighs, pushing her into the mattress.

  She turns her head and sees Kyle above her, his arms planted either side of her body. His eyes are closed, his greasy hair hanging down. She opens her mouth, but he shoves her head back down.

  ‘Shh, B,’ he whispers, and she feels him wrestling with her pyjama bottoms. She squirms beneath him; no matter how many times she’s told him not to do this, never to do this, he doesn’t listen. He never listens to her.