The Girl Across the Street

by Vikki Patis

  ‘No.’ Beth shakes her head. ‘No. That ship sailed long ago.’

  Kyle drops his arms, but his eyes remain fixed on hers. ‘B, please,’ he says quietly. ‘I can make this right, if you’ll let me. You can get out of there.’

  There. Isla’s house. Could she? Could she truly leave, start again with Kyle?

  ‘And where would we live? Here?’ She indicates the filthy room.

  ‘Would you rather stay there with him?’ Kyle says, incredulous. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of, B. I—’

  ‘I know very well what he’s capable of,’ Beth hisses, remembering Isla lying on the floor like a broken doll. Kyle drops his eyes, and Beth’s stomach lurches. She knows in that instant that she cannot leave Isla. How could she? Isla has taken her in, opened her home and her heart to her, never once pausing to consider her motives. A wave of guilt washes over her.

  ‘You got me into this mess,’ she continues. Her eyes flick towards Steve, who is still standing at the window.

  ‘I had no idea that was going to happen!’ Kyle’s eyes are wide now. ‘Come on, B, none of us could have predicted that! I thought you’d be safe with Steve there. I…’ He trails off. Beth wonders how much Steve knows, whether he’s aware of the part Kyle played in that night. What part she played. She wets her lips, clears her throat.

  ‘Whatever. It’s done. And I’m fixing it.’

  ‘What’s your plan then? What the fuck are you going to do next?’ Kyle runs a hand through his hair, and Beth is transported back to that night, the sun rising as she trudged up the hill, aching from a long shift and the walk back from the police station. Telling him her plan; Kyle panicking. And then he left, taking her money and leaving her in debt, forcing her hand.

  She doesn’t say anything. ‘How long is this going to go on for? How long will you stay in that house?’ Kyle lets out a groan.

  Beth meets his eyes, and she feels something harden inside her. ‘For as long as I have to.’

  A loud bang makes them all jump, Beth’s hand flying to her mouth. Her heart hammers in time with the fist that’s pounding on the door below.

  ‘Your mates want you,’ she whispers, glaring at Steve. ‘And I need to be going.’ She adjusts her bag on her shoulder, moves to let Steve amble past. She hears him wrench the door to the flat open, then his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘B, wait!’ She pauses at the sound of Kyle’s voice. ‘Do you want me to call a taxi?’

  She considers for a moment, then shakes her head. She doesn’t want to hang around here waiting for a cab to arrive. Kyle’s puppy-dog eyes are hard to ignore; her stomach twists as she allows herself to wonder, just for a moment, what would happen if she agreed to give it another go. If she stayed here, left Isla alone in that house. But she can’t. It’s gone too far for that. She has to see this through.

  ‘Goodbye, Kyle,’ she says quietly, then rushes out of the flat and down the stairs. As she pushes through the main door and out into the night, she catches a glimpse of Steve pressed against the side of a car, a man standing very close to him. She stops for a moment, considers trying to rescue him, then shakes her head. It’s not her problem any more. And whatever it is, whatever these men are doing, Steve probably deserves it. It was his car, after all. He should remember what he has done.

  Turning her back, she lights a cigarette and begins the long walk back to Isla’s house.

  Thirty-Eight

  Isla

  I woke at noon with my hand throbbing, pain shooting up my arm. Jake was still snoring beside me; he had the day off, and he always likes to sleep late when he can. I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, carefully unwrapped the bandage and examined the cut under the light. It was a vivid red, the skin puckered and swollen, and pus was oozing down the side of my wrist. I pressed a finger gingerly against the swelling and howled with pain. Jake rushed in behind me, startled awake by the noise, and took one look at my hand before bundling me into an oversized hoody and out the house, into the car, without a word.

  Four hours later and we’re still in A&E, Jake jiggling his knee up and down in the seat next to me. I want to tell him to stop, but I don’t have the energy. I feel hot; my forehead prickles with sweat and my underarms are clammy. My lower back is sore from the uncomfortable plastic chair.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ Jake asks suddenly, standing and stretching his arms above his head, and my gaze flickers to his face. I’m finding it difficult to focus. I try to nod, but as I open my mouth to ask for some water, my stomach contracts and I bend over, gasping. Vomit spews from my mouth, soaking my leggings and shoes, splattering on to the floor in front of me.

  Jake leaps back with a shout of alarm. ‘Fucking hell!’

  I lean back, panting, my mouth sticky. I realise I’m shivering.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I hear him mutter. ‘Nurse! Excuse me? Can we have some help here?’ He marches off towards the desk; out of the corner of my eye I can see him waving his hands about, gesticulating wildly towards me and the puddle of sick. I close my eyes, the lights suddenly too bright.

  Someone touches me on the arm. ‘Isla,’ a voice says. I open my eyes and see a woman – a nurse – crouching down beside me, a sympathetic smile on her lips. ‘Come with me, lovey. Let’s get you fixed up.’

  ‘About time too,’ Jake mutters as the nurse helps me to my feet.

  In the cubicle, she gives me a cup of lukewarm water, telling me to take small sips. ‘The doctor will be with you in a minute.’ She gives me another smile, then, darting a glare at Jake, who is standing by the bed, arms folded across his chest, disappears outside the curtain.

  ‘What a joke,’ Jake says, too loudly. I frown. ‘Four hours we’ve been here. Four bloody hours! It’s not even a Friday evening; they don’t have any drunks to contend with. Why on earth has it taken so long for you to be seen?’ He’s ranting now, and I close my eyes, tempted to put my hands over my ears to block him out. ‘Three hundred and fifty million to the NHS my left arse cheek. What a complete load of bollocks. I just—’

  ‘Mrs Hull?’ A voice interrupts Jake and the curtain is pulled back to reveal a tall woman with dark skin and short black hair. She flicks her eyes at Jake before focusing on me. ‘Mrs Hull?’ she says again, and I manage a nod. ‘I’m Dr Campbell.’ I notice she has a slight accent – Scottish? – and her voice is soft and comforting.

  Closing the curtain behind her, she comes over to the bed and reaches for my injured hand. I hear her sharp intake of breath as she examines the wound. ‘Ooh, oh dear. What do we have here then?’ She looks into my eyes and I open my mouth to explain.

  ‘She dropped a glass,’ Jake says, cutting me off. He waves a hand as if it’s no big deal, as if I’m making a fuss over nothing.

  Dr Campbell ignores him. She’s still looking at me. My eyes drop to the wound and I realise suddenly, through the fog that has taken over my brain, that it looks like it could be self-inflicted. Does she think I hurt myself deliberately? I want to protest, tell her no, it was an accident, but my brain isn’t working properly.

  ‘It looks infected,’ Dr Campbell says softly. ‘Did you clean it?’ I think back, trying to remember. Did I? I remember Beth pressing some kitchen roll over the wound. I remember putting the bandage on. But did I clean it? I shake my head. I can’t remember. Dr Campbell tuts. ‘Looks like there’s still some glass in here,’ she continues, gently rotating my wrist. ‘Let’s get that out first.’ She rummages around in the trolley next to the bed, pulling out gloves and antiseptic wipes, and ripping open a pair of sterile tweezers. She’s frowning when she turns back to me. ‘This might hurt a bit, Mrs Hull,’ she says, taking my hand again and holding it up to the light.

  ‘Isla,’ I croak, my voice thin and barely audible. I clear my throat. ‘It’s Isla.’

  She smiles then, her head bent over my wrist. ‘Isla. What a lovely name.’ She rips open the wipe and gently dabs the wound. It stings, and I feel the urge to tug my hand out of her grip, but I don�
�t. Holding the tweezers aloft, she glances up and catches my eye. ‘I’ll be quick,’ she says softly, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the pain. But it doesn’t come.

  ‘All done!’ she declares, standing back and dropping the tweezers and the shard of glass into a waiting bowl. She takes the gloves off and throws them into the bin. ‘Right. Let’s get you patched up, then I’ll write you up a prescription for some antibiotics. Are you feeling dizzy, feverish? The nurse told me you were sick in the waiting room.’

  ‘That’s because we were waiting for hours,’ Jake sighs. Dr Campbell’s face remains impassive as she winds the bandage around my hand. When she speaks again, it’s as if she didn’t hear him.

  ‘Let’s get you on a high dose and see how you go over the next few days. They may give you some tummy problems – are you on the pill?’

  The question makes my insides go cold. They’re both staring at me, waiting for my answer. If Jake took my pills, then he knows the truth. But why hasn’t he mentioned it since? My eyes flick between them, my husband and the doctor, and I feel panic rising inside me. Jake is frowning now.

  ‘It’s important you tell me, Isla,’ Dr Campbell says. ‘Would you like to speak to me in private?’ Another bolt of dread shoots through me. I can feel Jake glaring at me, but I can’t move, I can’t speak.

  ‘No, she wouldn’t,’ he says, his eyes not leaving my face. ‘And no, she isn’t on the pill. Besides, wasn’t that all disproved?’

  Now Dr Campbell turns to him. ‘Antibiotics may not cause the pill to be less effective,’ she says slowly, raising an eyebrow, ‘but when a patient is vomiting or has diarrhoea, it can cause issues with contraception.’ She turns back to me. ‘Just be extra careful for the next few weeks, okay?’

  I nod, finally making my body obey my commands. Dr Campbell scribbles something on a notepad. ‘You can pick your antibiotics up at the hospital pharmacy,’ she says. ‘The nurse will show you where to go.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage, reaching out with my uninjured hand. I can’t touch her from here, but she steps forward, allows me to grasp her wrist. She smiles at me then, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and a message is passed between us. She knows. Fear floods my insides, but she doesn’t say anything. She gently squeezes my hand then turns on her heel, pushing her way out of the curtain.

  ‘Well, she had an attitude on her,’ Jake says, and I fight the urge to punch him.

  It’s almost seven o’clock by the time we get home, after a long wait at the pharmacy for the antibiotics, and then getting stuck in rush-hour traffic. To my surprise, Jim’s car is parked on the road outside our house, engine running. Judith gets out as Jake parks in the driveway, rushing over to him when he gets out of the car. I stay in the passenger seat, my bandaged hand lying in my lap. I still feel a bit nauseous, and Judith’s appearance has given me an instant headache. I sigh, undo my seat belt and get out of the car.

  Jake has already gone inside, Judith on his heels, and I sigh again as I reach into the back of the car and pull out my prescription.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ Jim says from behind me, reaching in and taking the bag of medication. He frowns at my bandaged hand. ‘Oh dear,’ he says gently, patting my shoulder. ‘How about a takeaway? My treat.’ I smile at him, this kind, quiet man, the best thing about my marriage to Jake. I feel a pang of guilt as I remember what I’m planning to do. Would I ever be able to speak to Jim again? Unlikely, I think with dismay.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ he asks as we head into the house. ‘Pizza? Chinese?’

  I shake my head. ‘Come on,’ I say, smiling for the first time today, ‘you know what I’ll pick.’

  Jim grins back at me as he closes the front door behind us. ‘Indian. Coming right up.’

  Thirty-Nine

  Beth

  Isla is resting on the sofa when Beth gets home, weary from her walk from Steve’s. Jake’s parents are sitting at the table, the remnants of an Indian takeaway scattered across the surface. Beth smiles when Isla rolls her eyes at her mother-in-law, who is wittering on about nothing in particular. She shrugs off her jacket, preparing to save Isla from the woman. Jake intercepts her in the hallway, blocking her path.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he hisses, his eyes blazing. He has a glass in one hand, a tea towel in the other. ‘I told you, you’ve outstayed your welcome.’

  Beth raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Doing some housework, are we? Makes a nice change.’

  Jake scowls and leans down, pushing his face closer to hers. ‘Do you really think she won’t see through you?’ He smiles then, that slow, wolfish smile that sends a shiver down her back. ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘And she’s my friend,’ Beth hisses back. ‘She’s seen through you already.’

  Jake is still grinning. ‘You reckon so?’

  Beth’s stomach flips. Of course, she wants to say. Isla is leaving you. We’re leaving. But she doesn’t say anything. She pushes past him and goes into the living room, plastering a smile on her face as she sits beside Isla.

  ‘How’s the patient?’ she asks, reaching out for Isla’s injured hand. ‘I knew there was still some glass stuck in there.’ She tuts, but she’s still smiling. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were at the hospital?’ Isla only texted when they were on their way back, creeping along the A10 at five miles an hour.

  Isla rolls her eyes. ‘How was work? You’re late back, aren’t you?’

  Beth raises an eyebrow at her. Since when did Isla know her schedule? She lifts a shoulder. ‘Had something to sort out.’

  Isla opens her mouth to say something more, but her mother-in-law breaks in. ‘Jakey! Where’s that coffee?’ Her voice is high and posh, the vowels perfectly rounded. Beth winces. ‘Would you like me to do it, sweetheart?’

  ‘It’s coming, Mum!’ Jake sounds harassed. A few seconds later, he bustles into the room carrying cups of coffee on a tray.

  ‘Ah, here we are!’ Judith says, taking her cup with a broad smile. ‘Thank you, dear.’

  Beth shakes her head. She wants to ask if they’re here for Isla, if they’ve come to take care of her, but she suspects not.

  Jake’s father – Jim? Beth can’t remember – nods towards Isla. ‘I think you wanted tea, didn’t you?’

  Jake frowns. Isla waves a hand. ‘It’s okay, I can make it.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s—’ Jim begins to protest, but Beth stands up, gently pushing Isla back on to the sofa.

  ‘I’ll make it. Two sugars?’ She winks at Isla, then, with a glare at Jake, saunters into the kitchen.

  Jake’s parents finally leave an hour later. Beth is stacking the dishwasher, her stomach rumbling at the congealed leftovers on the plates. She loves Indian food. Maybe Isla saved me something, she thinks hopefully. She wipes down the sides, catching crumbs in her hand and depositing them in the bin, then digs around in the cupboard for a dishwasher tablet.

  ‘Beth.’ A voice behind her makes her jump. She drops the tablet and it skitters across the floor, landing at Jake’s feet. He bends to retrieve it, a broad smile on his face.

  ‘Jake,’ she says shakily. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to.’ He throws the tablet into the air and catches it, continuing to grin at her. Beth’s heart begins to pound. ‘Come on,’ he says, putting it on the side. ‘I want to show you something.’ He turns and marches back into the living room. A wave of fear washes over her as she follows.

  The TV is on, turned to a news channel. A headline flashes across the bottom in large white writing. A man dressed in a light overcoat is standing in front of a block of flats, talking directly into the camera. In the background, police are swarming over the area, and the flashing lights of an ambulance cast eerie shadows across the grass.

  ‘Let’s just turn it up,’ Jake says, reaching for the remote. Isla is asleep on the sofa, her head resting on her arm. Beth turns to Jake, about to demand an explanation, when she hears what the reporter is saying.

  ‘A mur
der investigation has been launched after a twenty-seven-year-old man was found dead tonight at Sele Farm. The man was discovered by local residents after he received three knife wounds to the chest outside this block of flats. The whereabouts of the assailants are unknown.’

  The words pound in Beth’s ears. Sele Farm. Knife wounds. Murder.

  ‘Don’t you know someone who lives there?’ Jake asks, the grin still in place.

  Beth’s mouth is open, her arms crossed over her chest, her fingers gripping her elbows. Could it be? Oh Steve. She fumbles in her pocket for her phone, bringing up Kyle’s number. She has to make sure. The reporter continues in the background.

  ‘Witnesses reported seeing a dark car speed away from the crime scene at around ten p.m. They described three men of average height and build, with white skin. Police are looking into the possibility that this was a racial attack.’

  A racial attack. Beth blinks, paused over Kyle’s name on the screen. She turns to look at Jake. He’s frowning now.

  Her phone vibrates in her hand, startling her. Steve. She answers it, gabbling. ‘What’s happened? I-I’ve just seen the news. Is it …?’

  Silence. ‘Oh Beth,’ Steve finally says, and it’s enough. Tears fill her eyes, and she stumbles backwards, catching herself on the radiator as she slides down the wall.

  ‘Beth?’ Steve’s voice is far away; Beth has dropped the phone beside her on the floor. Her hands shake as she raises them, words reverberating through her skull. He’s dead. He’s dead. Kyle’s dead. A scream bursts from her lips and she buries her face in her hands.

  Forty

  Isla