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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I finally find a jar of instant coffee behind the bread bin, which reminds me of the pills I found in Jo’s toilet cistern. Before that, she’d taken something from Petey at the back door and left it in the bread bin. It seems like such a long time ago, yet it was only four days.

  The loose slices of Warburton’s inside the bread bin are growing a nice beard of fluffy green mould and it’s such a grim sight that I wince away after opening the lid. I use a wooden spoon to nudge them to one side and then crouch to peer inside, where, sure enough, a small white tub has been pushed to the back. There’s no label on the lid and – after a fight with the child-proof cap that proves somewhat adult-proof – I find the same small orange pills inside as I first saw upstairs.

  I’m about to return the tub to the bin when there’s a noise from the doorway. Jo’s leaning wearily against the frame and fights away another yawn as she holds out her hand. There seems little point in resisting, so I give her the tub and then watch as she tips a pair of tablets onto the counter and then swallows them down with a mouthful of water.

  ‘What are they?’ I ask.

  Jo returns the tub to the bread bin and then, as the kettle clicks off, she dumps three spoonfuls of instant coffee granules into her mug as before. She fills it with steaming water and then steps away.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d find the coffee,’ she says.

  ‘What are the pills?’ I repeat.

  ‘Percocet.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  Jo turns her back on me and returns to the living room. I follow and she retakes her seat, while I sit on the sofa and wait. A good minute passes without either of us speaking until I can’t leave it any longer.

  ‘You asked me to come here,’ I say.

  ‘They calm me down,’ Jo replies. She sounds more tired than annoyed. ‘They help me sleep… well, usually. It didn’t help much last night.’

  ‘Isn’t stuff like that on prescription only?’

  ‘I know someone that can get them.’

  ‘Chris…?’

  She looks up for the first time, although it’s hard to say whether she’s actually watching me because her eyes are barely open.

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  Jo makes a pfft sound. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  We sit quietly for a moment. No wonder Beth was so annoyed with Chris if he’s got her eight-year-old brother making deliveries for him. I can’t believe it’s an accident – Chris will know that the legal age of criminal responsibility is ten. Chris would be in serious trouble, but Petey’s untouchable.

  Jo has more of her coffee. ‘I’ve got to go soon,’ she says.

  ‘To see Ethan?’

  She nods but doesn’t move.

  ‘What about Neil?’

  Jo rolls her eyes and lets out a disgusted gasp. It’s the most animated she’s been since I got here. ‘He’s still at the police station. The idiot. I wasn’t allowed to visit him yesterday – not that I wanted to anyway. I was there in this little room and had this woman over me, talking about how they had Neil in one cell and Owen in another.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to Neil?’

  ‘I don’t know. He got drunk and punched the guy who’s been brought in to run the factory. I heard management is trying to play it down and pretend it didn’t happen. The shop guys found it hilarious, apparently. As of last night, the boss said he didn’t want to give a statement. They kept Neil in overnight for D&D, but I guess I might end up having to pick up the pair of them.’ She sighs and reaches for her mug again before adding: ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘I’m getting the house cleared tomorrow,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s good.’

  Jo gives the impression that she’s not listening, though I don’t blame her for the self-centredness. It doesn’t feel the right time to add that I’m going to be leaving once the house is sorted.

  She pushes herself up from the seat and repeats that she has to go. I get up, too, ready to follow her into the hall, but she stops in the doorway and turns.

  ‘Can you do something for me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to the petrol station.’ I wonder if she’s asking me to fill up her car, but then she adds: ‘The one that caught Owen on camera.’

  ‘Why?’

  She already has her phone in her hand and is tapping something onto the screen. ‘I’ll send you the details in case you don’t know it.’

  ‘But what do you want me to do?’

  She blinks, as if I’m stupid for not knowing. ‘Ask around,’ she says, like this is normal. ‘See what they know.’

  ‘Know about what? Wasn’t Owen caught on camera?’

  ‘Exactly. Just ask around. Find out what really happened.’

  She turns and moves towards the stairs. She has so much going on that I don’t think I can turn down a request – and yet this seems like madness.

  ‘We’ll catch up later,’ Jo says.

  ‘Okay,’ I reply – although I’m still unsure what I’ve agreed to do.

  Thirty-Five

  Not that I blame her for being distracted, but when Jo asked me to visit the petrol station I’m not sure she realised that I don’t have a car. I walk along the edge of the main road out of Elwood and then traipse along the overgrown grass at the side of the narrow country lane that leads towards what everyone calls ‘the ring road’. It’s not a ring road in any sense, because it doesn’t form a ring and it doesn’t go all the way around the town. Instead, it’s a link route that connects Elwood to the nearest motorway junction. Another of those local quirks, I suppose. I’m old enough to remember when the road was being built.

  The lane gets narrower as the hedges that line the side become more overgrown. I’m forced onto the side of the road itself, while trying to remember if people are supposed to walk with traffic, or against it. Either way, I don’t fancy my chances if someone roars around a blind bend at ridiculous speed.

  It takes me over an hour to walk to the petrol station. Having lived in a city for so long, I’m so used to seeing petrol stations operated by supermarkets or the large oil companies that it feels odd to see anything else. This one is a throwback to the times when any trip into the countryside would be accompanied by a stop-off at a random place in the middle of nowhere. Those were often operated by the type of person who’d be near the top of any list for likely serial killers.

  This one has no major company logos, just a sign that reads ‘Stapletons’ across the top of four pumps. There’s a market towards the back of the forecourt, plus the price board – and then four CCTV cameras very obviously pinned to poles in each corner.

  There must have been a serious lack of judgement for Owen to stop here while driving illegally. The likelihood is that, if he drove alone while on a provisional licence this time, he probably did it before without being caught. If it wasn’t for the collision, the police would have had no reason to find the camera footage out here. I can only think he stopped here because he was so short on fuel that he feared breaking down.

  It’s taken me a long time to walk from Elwood – but it’s certainly true that Owen could have driven from here to where Ethan was hit in a relatively short amount of time.

  That doesn’t mean it was him – even if the police kept him in for questioning. It’s hard to imagine one brother doing that to another and then driving off – but then Cain and Abel is a story that’s been around since the time when people started writing things down.

  The forecourt is empty, so I walk across the centre and head into the minimart. The air conditioning blows cool against the warmth of outside and I shiver as I pass through the door. The place seems empty at first but, as I move along the nearest aisle that’s loaded on both sides with chocolate and sweets, a head pops out from a room beyond the counter. It’s a woman with glasse
s and a phone in her hand. She squints out towards the forecourt, probably expecting a car considering the distance from town, and then looks back to me.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I close in on the counter and clock her name tag ‘Linda’.

  ‘I’m Abi,’ I say, stumbling over the words. ‘I’ve got a bit of a weird question. I’m friends with Jo Ashworth and—’

  ‘Is this about her lad?’

  ‘Owen,’ I reply.

  Linda backs away from the counter a little. She sounds part defensive, part panicked – as if I’m some sort of slightly sweaty henchwoman sent here to smash things up.

  ‘It wasn’t me that told the police. I ain’t no grass.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m here,’ I say.

  ‘Oh… so why are you here?’

  I start to say something and then realise I’m tripping over the words. I wonder if Jo actually did send me here to get a name for whoever could’ve contacted the police. Snitches get stitches and all that.

  I’m interrupted by a car pulling onto the forecourt. We both turn and watch as a guy gets out of his shiny BMW and then tries to stretch the hose from one side of the car to the other. When it doesn’t reach, he stomps his feet, gets back into the car and repositions it on the other side of the pump.

  ‘How often does that happen?’ I ask.

  ‘At least three or four times a day. You’d think people would know which side of the car everything’s on.’

  We watch as he wrestles with the hose, spills petrol on his shoes, and then finally sets it going.

  ‘How much d’you reckon?’ I ask.

  Linda blinks at me. ‘Huh?’

  ‘How much do you think he’ll put in?’ I dig into my bag and place a pound coin on the counter. ‘Winner takes all.’

  She stares curiously for a moment and then digs into a back pocket of her jeans, before placing another pound on the counter. ‘You first.’

  ‘Sixty quid,’ I say.

  ‘No chance. BMW owners are terrible drivers and stingy gits. I’m going fifty-nine, ninety-nine.’

  ‘That’s cheating.’

  Linda smiles but doesn’t reply and it’s a surreal scene as we both watch a man filling up his car through the window.

  He stops after all too short a time, then clanks the nozzle onto the edge of the tank – which only makes him spill even more on his shoes. He doesn’t seem to notice, and wrenches the hose back into place, before setting off towards the minimart.

  ‘How much?’ I ask.

  Linda smiles wider but doesn’t reply.

  The man doesn’t remove his sunglasses as he comes inside and barely looks up from his phone.

  I move out of the way, letting him get to the counter as he pulls out a platinum AMEX and hands it across.

  ‘That’s thirty pounds and two pence,’ Linda says.

  ‘On that,’ the man replies.

  Linda sorts his payment and hands him back the receipt and the card – although she might as well be passing him a donor card for all the attention he pays. He mooches out of the shop as Linda slides the two pound coins into her hand.

  ‘Easy money,’ she says. She waits until the man is back in his car and then turns to me once more. ‘I still don’t know why you’re here.’

  She sounds more relaxed now.

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ I reply. ‘Jo wanted me to come and ask about what happened with Owen. She heard there was footage, but I don’t think she’s seen it and I know Owen hasn’t talked to her. I think she just wants to know what’s going on.’ I pause and then add: ‘She’s got a lot on her plate.’

  ‘I’ll say. That poor kid.’

  ‘Ethan,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, Ethan. I hope he makes it. It’s terrible what happened to him. I was at the fete yesterday morning and everyone was talking about it.’

  ‘What actually happened with Owen?’ I ask.

  She nods towards the back room. ‘Police came in on Friday and asked if we had CCTV. I asked if they had eyes, then pointed at the cameras outside. The bloke wanted to see footage from last Tuesday. I told him it’s lucky he came in because we only keep everything for a week. It’s all on a hard drive, then it starts recording over the old stuff.’

  ‘What was on it?’

  ‘Cars. Loads of them. It was busy on Tuesday, for whatever reason. I left them with the footage and the computer while I was serving out here. They called me in and asked about the timestamps. They seemed really excited.’

  ‘Because of the time?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t recognise him at the time but they were pointing at that Owen kid when he was heading into here to pay for the petrol. They wanted to double-check that the time on the screen was matched up with the actual time.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Definitely. The time doesn’t come from us. It’s synced from an external server and can’t be wrong. When I told them that, they said they needed to take the footage.’

  ‘You said you didn’t recognise Owen at the time…?’

  ‘I don’t know him, not really. I didn’t know the police were here for anything to do with what happened to his brother. When they were pointing to him on the screen, I vaguely knew him but couldn’t remember from where. It was the next day when I realised he’d been on telly with his mum. That’s when I figured it all out.’

  ‘Figured what out?’

  Linda looks at me curiously, as if thinking I already know the reasons. ‘He did it, didn’t he? He was driving the car that hit his brother – and then he ran for it. That’s why they were checking the times. He filled up the car here and then he was driving home.’

  She likely doesn’t know that Owen was driving by himself on a provisional licence and I wonder how many people she’s told of her theory. The rumour is probably already on its way around Elwood.

  ‘What was Owen doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Not much. He put some petrol in the car and I think he bought a Double Decker. I wasn’t paying proper attention.’

  ‘Was he definitely by himself?’

  ‘The police asked me that. He came in here on his own, but I didn’t know if there was anyone else in the car. I had to show them how to look at the other camera angles. They were zooming in and out – and then they took that footage, too.’ She waits and then adds: ‘I don’t think there was anyone else in his car.’

  I’m not sure what else to ask. It’s looking bad for Owen if only in the sense that he’s been caught doing something he definitely shouldn’t.

  ‘I should head back,’ I say, angling towards the door.

  ‘Hang on,’ Linda says, with urgency. ‘Do you think he did it?’

  ‘Owen?’

  ‘Can you imagine hitting your own brother with a car and then driving off?’

  I think about how best to answer. I suspect Linda’s made up her mind anyway. It’s no wonder she was happy to talk about this. Since she realised the identity of the person in whom the police were interested, I’d bet she’s been bursting to talk to anyone and everyone.

  ‘I don’t know him very well,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t think I could live with myself.’

  ‘It’s amazing what some people can live with.’

  My phone starts to ring and Jo’s name flashes on the screen. Linda watches as I apologise and say I have to take the call. I press to answer and head outside, where I’m hit by the wall of heat.

  ‘Where are you?’ Jo asks. She’s short of breath.

  ‘At the petrol station.’

  ‘Can you come?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The hospital. It’s Ethan.’

  ‘What about him?’

  I feel my own heart thumping at the frantic tone of her voice.

  Jo doesn’t answer, so I repeat myself. There’s still no reply and, when I look at the screen, she’s hung up.

  Thirty-Six

  The woman who answers the phone at the taxi company tells me a car will be at t
he petrol station in five minutes. That inevitably means that it takes fifteen for the guy to turn up. By the time I get to the hospital, it’s half an hour since Jo called. I pay the driver with the cash I found at the house and then dash across the car park towards the main building.

  I’m about to head through the sliding doors at the front when I spot Jo sitting on the kerb a little way along the pavement, close to a row of hedges. She finishes smoking a cigarette, mashes it into the ground and then takes another from her bag and sparks it with a lighter. She holds it to her mouth and breathes deeply, before closing her eyes and pressing backwards, stretching her legs into the road, holding the smoke in her mouth.

  I approach slowly, not wanting to jolt her.

  Jo holds the smoke for longer than I’ve ever seen anyone manage, before she huffs it out with the merest of coughs. She opens her eyes and spots me, giving the slimmest of smiles.

  I sit on the kerb next to her and match her by extending my legs into the empty road.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

  She reaches into her bag and removes another cigarette, before passing it to me.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve not had one in years.’

  ‘Do you remember when we started? There were those trees at the end of the back field at school and we’d go down there every break time. What were we? Thirteen? Fourteen?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘We thought we were sneaking around, but we had to cross the field every time we went there. Everyone must’ve known what we were doing. I didn’t figure that out until about a year ago.’

  ‘Rite of passage,’ I say. ‘Everyone in the years above us used to creep down to those trees. We were only copying them. Then the ones in the years below used to follow us. The kids probably still do it.’

  ‘Not now. The school sold part of the field a few years ago. There’s a row of houses where those trees used to be and they built a fence to separate it from the school.’

  She takes a wistful breath and continues smoking the cigarette.