The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Kerry Wilkinson

  The suited man steps backwards, but Neil continues towards him. ‘I, um…’

  ‘You’re laying all of us off, while sponsoring this?’ Neil continues.

  ‘There was already a commitment in place.’

  Neil isn’t listening: ‘You’re destroying this town. Hendo’s is everything around here. We’ve given our lives for you.’

  The man continues trying to move away as Neil keeps lunging towards him. From nowhere, an older man in an apron jumps between them and starts muttering things like ‘I think we should all calm down’ and ‘Maybe this is a conversation for outside…?’ He’s looking around for some sort of help, but nobody’s going forward, mainly because most of the people in attendance are mild-mannered gardeners, not jack-booted security staff.

  ‘It’s from a different budget,’ the suited man insists.

  ‘So why not move the money around then? If you can afford this, you can afford to keep on some of the lads.’

  The man from Hendo’s backs into a table full of Victoria sponges, leaving him nowhere to go. The bloke in the apron has been squeezed out to the side as Neil bears down, fists clenched. That’s when the man in the suit does the worst thing he could possibly do by resting a hand on Neil’s arm. I’m sure he means it to be some sort of comfort, but it feels as if everyone watching, including me, breathes in at the same time. He knows he’s messed up, too, instantly removing his hand and trying to backtrack – even though it’s too late.

  ‘I know you’re having a hard time,’ the man says, ‘what with everything that happened to your son.’

  ‘He’s not my son,’ Neil growls.

  ‘No, well… I mean. It’s like… Um…’

  ‘How do you know I’m having a hard time? How much are you making a year? A hundred grand? Two hundred? More?’

  ‘It’s, erm—’

  Neil lashes out with his foot, sending a chair cartwheeling across the grass, where it crashes into a display of turnips. The vegetables cascade out of the containers onto the ground and start to roll towards the door flap. The sound of the collision stops Neil where he’s standing and he turns to take in the damage he’s caused. It’s only a second, but, in that time, the man from Hendo’s scoots off to the side and makes a run for the exit.

  That does it for Neil. In a flash, he’s caught the man and grabbed him by the collar. There’s a ripping sound and then the man slips to the floor as Neil stands over him, a scrap of white shirt in his hand.

  ‘Are you even sorry?’ Neil shouts.

  It’s hard to see what happens next because it’s all a blur of arms and legs. The man in the suit is trying to get to his feet, while also trying to bat away Neil. The problem comes when he slips. He reaches up, trying to steady himself, and I’m not sure what version is true after that. He either tries – and succeeds – in slapping Neil across the face, or it’s an accidental flail of the arm.

  Regardless of what’s true, the crack echoes around the tent like a backfiring car. Neil staggers and there’s a clear ‘ooh’ from the surrounding crowd.

  The suited man is on his feet now.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean that, it was—’

  Neil launches himself forward and crunches a punch into the other man’s jaw. The noise booms louder than the slap as the suited man’s head snaps backwards. Crimson spurts from his lip, spraying across the top half of his face and into his eye. He reels away, holding his face and gasping with shock, pain, or both. He then trips over one of the errant turnips and collides with a tent pole.

  Nobody has moved – except Neil, who looms over the other man, his fists still balled.

  ‘You think you can do this to me?’ he bellows. ‘To my family? Then you slap me in the face?’

  I’m certain he’s about to punch the man on the floor again but, from nowhere, a pair of uniformed police officers dash into the tent with the same sense of timing as a person who’s forgotten to put their clocks forward.

  The first officer slams a shoulder into Neil, rugby-style, taking them both to the ground. The second then dives in and cuffs Neil’s hands behind his back.

  They haul him to his feet, but Neil’s still shouting ‘You don’t know what it’s like’ at the suited man. Cuffs or not, he’s trying to get back into the fight – but the police officers are too much for him. They bundle him out of the tent flap, with the suited man just behind them, as everyone else watches on in stunned silence.

  Everything’s happened so quickly that it takes a moment for anyone to react. In the end, it’s the guy in the apron who moves first. He plucks a battered turnip from the ground and holds it up, shaking his head.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I guess I’m not gonna win this year.’

  Thirty-One

  When I get out of the marquee, I almost instantly spot Beth, or – more specifically – her long green dress. She’s with Owen close to the beer garden, although neither of them are holding drinks. With Jo being at the hospital, someone’s going to have to pass on the message that Neil’s been arrested, so I figure it might be best coming from Owen.

  As if Jo doesn’t have enough on her plate, with Ethan in intensive care, now her partner’s been nicked.

  I set off towards Owen and Beth but as soon as I start walking, they head off in the opposite direction. I figure they’re trying to avoid me – but then I realise they’ve not even seen me.

  Beth’s brother, Petey, is standing with his bike on the edge of the park, almost hidden by the shadows of the trees. He’s by himself, next to a clothes recycling bank – but then Chris steps out from behind the giant metal bin. It’s not the first time I’ve seen them together – but this seems more jarring than when they were on the street. That was in the open, where anyone could see, but there can’t be much doubt they’ve purposefully chosen the darkest spot in the park.

  They’re talking to one another but are too far in the distance for me to be able to hear anything. Either way, it is odd enough in itself. How many men who are almost forty need to be having regular discussions with eight-year-old kids to whom they’re not related?

  From the way Beth is marching towards them, I figure she’s thinking the same. She’s separated from Owen because she’s moving so much quicker, while I trail after the pair of them.

  I get within earshot a few seconds after Beth has reached the recycling bins. She’s pointing an angry finger towards Chris’s face.

  ‘Stay away from us,’ she says, moving herself between Chris and Petey.

  ‘What?’ he replies.

  ‘We’re out. I don’t want to see you talking to Petey again.’ She grabs at her brother’s hand, but he pulls away.

  Owen’s standing off to the side with his arms folded. As best I can tell, nobody’s noticed me.

  ‘What’s caused all this?’ Chris says, sounding surprised and defensive. He nods across to Owen. ‘It’s not because of your brother, is it?’

  Beth replies before Owen can open his mouth: ‘I don’t care. You’re not involving Petey any more. You do your own dirty work.’

  Chris folds his arms and starts to shake his head. ‘Are you really going to walk away?’

  ‘I’m nothing to do with this’ – she turns and points at Petey – ‘but he’s eight years old and he’s not doing jobs for you any longer.’

  Petey starts with an ‘I—’ but Beth cuts him off with a terse: ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You can’t speak for him,’ Chris says.

  ‘Good point,’ Beth chirps back. ‘I’ll get Mum involved, shall I? Let her know what’s been going on…?’

  Chris shrinks a little. He starts with a more conciliatory ‘I think—’ but Beth cuts him off before he can finish.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she says again, talking over him. ‘If I see you near Petey again – if I even hear you’ve been on the same street as him – I’ll get on to the police and tell them some creepy guy is hanging around with my baby brother.’

  Chris eyes her but must know he’s beaten. He f
licks a glance towards Owen and then storms off towards the stalls. When he’s gone, Petey starts to protest again, but Beth is not in the mood.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she says. ‘If I see you with him again, I’m going to Mum.’

  ‘I’ll tell them what you did.’

  There’s glee and malice in Petey’s little eight-year-old eyes. It’s the kind of spite that only children can inflict.

  ‘Do it,’ Beth dares him.

  Petey instantly looks away and Beth knows this is another battle won.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she says. ‘It’s time to go anyway.’

  She takes a step towards the edge of the park and Owen follows. A beat later and Petey picks up his bike and trails them. It’s only watching them leave when I realise I was supposed to be telling Owen that Neil had been arrested.

  Beth’s marching at a pace that would put parading soldiers to shame and, by the time I’ve started off towards them, they’re well on the way back to the marquee.

  I have to jog to close the gap but, as I’m nearing the trio, I spot a man and a woman in suits appearing from behind the fence of the beer garden. I arrive just as the suited pair cut in front of Beth, Owen and Petey.

  The man doesn’t start with niceties. ‘Are you Owen Ashworth?’ he asks.

  Owen glances to Beth and then the newcomers. ‘Yes…’ he replies.

  I assume they’re police officers about to tell him about what’s happened with Neil – but it’s worse than that.

  ‘I’m arresting you in connection with driving otherwise than in accordance with a licence, and driving without insurance. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  It’s come out so quickly and unexpectedly that nobody, least of all Owen, seems to know what to say.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ Owen eventually manages.

  The female officer turns to Beth: ‘Are you over eighteen?’ she asks.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  The officers exchange a glance and then the man speaks again, talking to Owen this time. ‘It’s best if there’s an adult to accompany you to the station,’ he says. ‘Are your parents around?’

  ‘Mum’s at the hospital. There’s my stepdad, but I don’t know where he is.’

  He starts to look around, trying to perform a real-life Where’s Wally in order to find Neil – and then, finally, he and Beth notice me.

  ‘Neil’s been arrested,’ I say.

  This surprises everyone. The two officers turn to one another again, while Beth and Owen do the same.

  ‘Arrested?’ Owen replies.

  ‘He punched someone in the marquee,’ I say, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of the tent.

  ‘He punched someone?’

  ‘I think it was a manager from Hendo’s.’

  The scene turns somewhat surreal as both officers, Beth, Owen and Petey all turn to one another, unsure what happens next.

  The male officer speaks next, talking to me. ‘Who are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Abi,’ I reply. ‘A friend of Owen’s mum.’

  ‘Can you accompany him to the station?’

  ‘What do I have to do?’ I ask.

  ‘Be an adult.’

  I almost reply that I’ve never been comfortable with whatever ‘being an adult’ entails but, instead, I nod towards Owen.

  ‘Is this all right with you?’ I ask.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he replies.

  The officer seemingly takes this as a yes, offering a quick ‘let’s go’ before turning towards the road and guiding Owen away by his elbow.

  Thirty-Two

  I’m beginning to wonder whether police officers around here have a different definition of the phrase ‘right back’. My phone says it’s been twelve minutes since the uniformed officer led me here, then disappeared, claiming he’d be ‘right back’.

  The walls are a dull grey, which matches the floor and ceiling. I was expecting a mirrored wall, plus a video camera – something like what’s on television – but there’s none of that. This feels like a forgotten room in a forgotten corner. There are a pair of office chairs, one of which has the foam spilling from the back. Aside from a handful of posters on the wall warning of things like not leaving valuables on show, there’s nothing else here.

  I’m about to poke my head into the corridor when there’s a loud clank from the distance. Moments later, there are footsteps – and then the door opens.

  Owen’s face is drained of colour. He’s taller than the uniformed police officer, but his stick-thin arms and legs make him by far the least intimidating of the two.

  ‘You can wait here,’ the officer says, nudging Owen towards the spare seat.

  I wondered if Owen might be cuffed – but I’ve probably been watching too much television. The only indication he can’t leave is when the officer says he’ll be outside the door. Moments later, he heads out, leaving us alone.

  There’s a long pause as Owen stares at the ground.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  ‘They took my shoes,’ Owen replies, holding his boat-like foot up for me to see.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. They’ve got my phone and wallet, too.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll get everything back…’

  Owen doesn’t acknowledge this. He shuffles in the seat and I wonder if he might have been more comfortable had I left him the chair that wasn’t falling apart. You snooze, you lose and all that.

  Perhaps, on reflection, I’m not the best ‘adult’ for this job.

  Owen glances to the door and, more likely, the unseen officer beyond. He lowers his voice to something that’s a little above a whisper. ‘Mum’s on her way,’ he says.

  He sits with his head low, almost between his knees. His angled elbows jut wide.

  I don’t know what to say – and don’t want to go with anything like ‘it’ll be all right’ – because I’m not sure that it will. Owen might have been arrested for some sort of driving offence, but I very much doubt that’s the only reason he’s here. They’ll be wanting to question him about where he was when his brother was hit. Perhaps someone got around to checking statements and apparent whereabouts? Owen certainly wasn’t where he told his mum he was.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ Owen says out of nothing. He’s still staring at the floor.

  ‘Why do you think they arrested you?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They said something about a licence and no insurance. Does that mean they think you’ve been driving without a licence?’

  He doesn’t answer and, though I don’t know the terms they used, I suspect it’s precisely this. Owen’s driving test is supposed to be next week, but perhaps he couldn’t resist the urge.

  ‘Mum says don’t trust the police,’ Owen says. ‘They fitted up Granddad.’

  I think of Holly’s anger over me talking to her son – yet here I am alone with Jo’s. Do I tell him the truth and risk Jo’s wrath, or go along with it? There’s not much choice.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I say.

  ‘They’re gonna do the same to me, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t think your granddad was fitted up.’ I suppose I’m hoping for some big revelation. That Owen will look up and thank me for freeing him from this lie. He doesn’t – he barely moves. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Owen. I don’t think lying will get you too far today.’

  He squeezes his ears, then pushes back into the chair and stares towards the door. ‘They want me to talk to a solicitor. I said I couldn’t afford it and neither could Mum – but they reckon it’s free.’

  ‘That sounds right. You should talk to whoever it is.’

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘Only you can answer that.’

  ‘What if someone tries to fit me up?’

  I wait, som
ehow knowing he’s going to look to me. When he does, and I realise he’s craving assurance, it’s suddenly the most adult I’ve ever felt.

  ‘I don’t think it’s like that any more,’ I say. ‘If it ever was. All those TV shows of blokes in terrible brown suits throwing people down the stairs don’t feel real.’

  ‘But Granddad—’

  ‘I knew him,’ I say. ‘Everyone in town did. The day before he was arrested for selling stolen goods, he knocked on our door and tried to sell my dad a TV.’

  Owen’s eyebrows dip into a frown. ‘Did he?’

  ‘My dad would’ve had one if he had the money. Elwood was that sort of place then. If someone wanted a new TV or a video player, something like that, we wouldn’t head off to the nearest Argos.’

  Owen cracks the slimmest of smiles but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘I was going to ask you what a video player is.’

  He grins a little wider and then it shrinks away.

  I let out a genuine laugh and then continue. ‘People would ask around to find out if a neighbour or a friend had a cheap telly they didn’t want. Stuff like that would do the rounds. Everything felt so expensive. I don’t know what happened. Either way, Jo’s dad – your granddad – came knocking with televisions to sell. He went up and down, knocking on everyone’s door. The next day, the police found a load of stolen TVs in a garage registered to him. Does that sound like he was stitched up?’

  Owen tilts his head to the side. His bemusement makes it look like I’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.

  ‘There would have been other evidence as well,’ I say. ‘They’d have traced the TVs back to wherever they were stolen. They’d have found out where your granddad was on the night of the theft. They’d have checked his bank account, or looked for cash. People don’t get sent to prison just for having TVs in a garage.’

  He nods and I wonder if, deep down, he already knew.

  ‘All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t automatically assume people are out to get you. If there’s a solicitor to talk to, I’d be certain they’re there to help you.’