‘Hol,’ he says sternly. ‘What do you want to do?’
Holly’s still in the kitchen doorway, or a fuzzy version of her is. I can’t focus properly. She doesn’t reply and then there’s another sharp movement from the side. The next thing I know, Mark’s fingers are digging hard into my scalp as he grabs me by the hair. I scream – or think I do. I’m not sure, but I definitely hear, or possibly see, Holly say a clear ‘Don’t.’
The pain instantly disappears from my head.
‘What’s the alternative?’ Mark says, talking across me. ‘Are you going to let Rob go to prison?’
I crawl a couple of steps away from Mark but am still between the two blocked doors, with nowhere to go.
‘He’s your son,’ I say, twisting back to Mark. It comes out as something of a croak ‘Ethan’s your son. Not Rob.’
I use the names on purpose, making it personal, but when Mark looks down towards me, it’s achieved the opposite. His features are screwed into a mix of despair and disgust. ‘What good is a son that won’t see his father?
‘There has to be a reason for that.’
A brief shake of the head. ‘This is my family now.’ Mark flicks his head towards Holly, who’s behind me. ‘You have to choose between her and Rob.’
There’s no answer and I spin around on the floor, looking up towards Holly who is still standing in the doorway. She’s blank, staring towards the fridge instead of anything that’s happening in front of her.
‘Hol,’ Mark says firmly. ‘Tell me what you want.’
‘Let me go, Holly,’ I say.
‘I’ll do whatever you want me to do,’ Mark continues. ‘I’ll do anything for you. Anything.’
I start to shiver and it feels as if the fridge is open and I’m directly in front of it.
‘No one will miss her,’ he says. ‘You said it yourself last night. She has no family.’
Jo’s words flash back to me – there was this look in his eye that I’d never seen before – and, as I look up to him, I wonder if I’m seeing the same. There’s steel there. Danger.
‘Hol!’ He barks at her and I twist between them.
Holly glances down to me and then flickers away again. Then, very slowly and deliberately, she turns her back to face into the hall.
Forty-Six
‘You don’t have to do this,’ I say.
Mark stands over me, shoulders hunched. ‘I didn’t – but you couldn’t keep your nose out. Everything would’ve died down. Things would have gone back to normal, but you wouldn’t have that.’
He’s calm and measured, which is so much worse than a manic scream or shout. He and Holly have obviously been talking about me and I wonder how much Mark has already prepared for this. Then I think of what Holly told me. No one else had their head slammed into a wall by their fathers; no one else was kicked down the stairs.
Is it me?
Do I attract this?
Mark grabs a handful of hair and pulls me up. I can feel his meaty fingers on top of my head. The pain sears down through my neck and shoulders. I scream Holly’s name, but she’s still facing the hall, with her back to the kitchen.
‘Shush…’ Mark coos.
I feel myself being swung to the side and then a crunching thunk blasts through me before I hear the bump.
I’ve moved again and am now slumped against the wall by the fridge, out of Mark’s grasp. Time must have passed, but I don’t know how long. Probably seconds.
Mark’s speaking, but it’s like I’m underwater. The words are there but not quite clear.
‘Hol!’
He’s trying to get her attention and, though she’s now facing the kitchen once more, she doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention. Mark claps his hands loudly and she jolts.
‘Where’s that big roll of plastic wrap?’ he asks. ‘The stuff we used for painting.’
‘Basement,’ she says.
‘Go and get it.’
I watch her look to me, pause for a second, and then make her decision. She turns and disappears into the hall. A moment later and there’s the sound of a door opening. I’m sitting with my legs outstretched and my head resting against the side of the fridge. There’s a smear of red crested across the white of the surface.
When I was young and Dad had drunk too much, I would cower, cover my head, and cry. I’d plead with him to stop, but he never did. Mum would conveniently be in the other room, or upstairs. Then she left anyway. I’d end up letting him punch and kick because what else was there to do? It’s two decades on and I’m there again. Nothing’s changed…
…Except it has. I’m not a teenager any longer and Dad is in a box, in the ground.
With Holly gone, Mark turns back to me and takes a step forward. It’s when his other foot is off the floor that I lash forward with my foot, crunching it into his standing leg a little bit under the knee. It doesn’t matter how strong a person might be, they still need legs to stand on – and Mark’s no different. He crumples sideways like a broken ironing board, his head cannoning into the counter as he folds to the floor.
I push myself up, but my legs are unsteady, too, and my head’s still spinning. I dart to the back door and slam down the handle, ready to throw myself through.
It doesn’t move.
I shove it again, only to realise it’s locked. Mark must have done it during one of the moments in which I found myself on the floor. When I turn, he’s using the counter to groggily pull himself up. He’s red in the face, with a gush of blood pooling from a slice across the top of his eye. There’s fury in his face as he growls like a cornered dog. I slide sideways, shoving the boxes to the floor and putting the kitchen table between us.
‘Hol!’
Mark calls for her and, though there’s no sign or sound of Holly, there’s little hope I’ll be able to hold him off for long. I’m hoping that, if I can get him to head around one side of the table, I’ll be able to dash towards the hall and the front door beyond. He sees straight through the plan, not bothering to chase me and instead standing in the hall door. With the back door locked, there’s no other way out.
‘Hol!’
I grab a mug from the table and hurl it in Mark’s direction. I’m not sure if I expected it to hit him, but he’s too quick anyway, ducking his head out of the way as the cup smashes into the wall. A sludge of browny-black coffee has sprayed across the floor, with shards of ceramic crashing to the ground. He’s watching me properly now as I pick up a handful of Holly’s oil vials and throw them too. There’s no need to avoid these because they’re so flimsy that they bounce off him.
‘Holly!’
There’s a bump from the hall and Mark moves from the door as she appears with a large roll of thick, clear plastic wrap. She frowns towards the shattered pieces of mug and then drops the plastic on the ground.
I really am cornered now.
It might be that the woolliness has cleared, but Holly now seems more decided than she was before. She focuses on me and I can see the sad determination.
‘He’s my son, Abi. What do you want me to do? I told you to go, but you had to come back. I didn’t want this.’
I finally spot the knives, but they’re on a rack on the other side of the kitchen. I was close to them when next to the fridge, but Mark is in the way now. He takes a step towards me. There’s still the table between us but, with Holly on one end and him at the other, I’m trapped.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ I say.
Holly kicks the roll of plastic wrap and it unspools across the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ she replies. ‘I love my son.’
She gives a small, barely perceptible nod towards Mark – and then he steps across the kitchen towards me.
Forty-Seven
The knock on the door echoes through the house like a gunshot. Mark freezes and then turns slowly to look at Holly, who has turned towards the hall. It’s only a moment – but that’s all I need.
‘HELP!’
Mar
k lunges across the table towards me, trying to get his hand across my mouth. I wriggle and battle against him, hurling an elbow in his direction and connecting with his shoulder. He’s so much stronger, but I manage to scream another three or four cries before he clamps his palm across my face.
That’s all it takes. After the knock on the door, there is a series of loud thumps, and then a mighty bang. An enormous bloke in a police uniform bursts into the kitchen, almost barrelling through Holly in the process. A step behind him is Sergeant Davidson.
Mark releases my mouth but keeps his arm around my neck. My first impressions of Davidson are long gone because I’ve never been more grateful to see a person.
The uniformed officer waits next to a resigned-looking Holly, while Davidson is on the other side of the table from Mark and me. He is so tall that his head is almost touching the light fitting above.
‘Let’s not make it any worse than it is,’ Davidson says, sounding so calm that, even with Mark’s arm across my neck, I start to relax.
‘I just…’ Mark’s grip loosens a tiny amount. ‘I want to protect my family.’
‘That’s what we all want,’ Davidson replies.
Mark’s grip slips even further. He still has the crook of his elbow under my throat but there’s no pressure. ‘I only wanted my boy to enjoy seeing me, but…’
He tails off, but Davidson has used the moment to move forward a step. He grips the table and slides it off to the side with a loud screech. Some of the junk drops onto the floor with a tinkling splat. There’s now nothing between him and us.
‘We can talk about that,’ Davidson says.
He reaches ahead, but Mark’s grip tightens and I gasp as he presses harder against my windpipe. Davidson spots it and edges backwards. The kitchen feels very cramped with five people, not to mention the boxes, the table, the roll of plastic wrap, and everything else that has spilled onto the floor.
‘Mark…’
It’s Holly who speaks. She sounds defeated.
I can’t see Mark, but I can see her and her gaze is fixed on him. There is puffiness around her eyes and it looks like she’s going to cry.
Mark’s grip loosens again.
‘It’s over,’ she says.
Mark’s arm drops to his side and, from nowhere, I’m free. I step away from him, though there’s still a grey smog around the corners of my vision. I continue moving, treading around Davidson and then stepping over the plastic wrap that has unspooled. Nobody stops me, nobody speaks, so I keep moving into the hall. I slip around the side of the boxes, spotting the open door to the basement in between them, and continuing on to the front door.
It feels like I’m floating, on some sort of magic carpet where I’m moving even though it doesn’t seem as if my legs are working.
Outside, and I spot Megan before anyone. She’s at the end of the path, arms behind her back. I have to move around three uniformed officers, all of whom I’d somehow missed until I almost walk into them. One of them motions towards me, but I shake my head and keep going until Megan’s in front of me.
‘You’re bleeding,’ she says.
I touch a hand to my forehead and come away with reddened fingers. There’s a stab of pain that I hadn’t felt until now.
‘Both sides,’ she adds.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘You’re the one who’s bleeding. How are you?’
‘I think I’m okay.’
She angles closer, eyeing whatever marks are on my face. ‘Did I do it right?’ she asks. ‘You said to give it fifteen minutes and then call the police.’
I continue on towards her, pressing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in until her head is wedged into my shoulder. It’s partly to hold me up but more so because I need to feel something; to feel someone.
‘You did great,’ I say.
Forty-Eight
TUESDAY
Jo stares down at the quilt of wilting flowers and then turns and heads to the bench. She grips my hand and squeezes, before letting it go.
‘I don’t know if I’m supposed to clear it all up,’ she says. ‘I’m not even sure why they left things. People must’ve thought he was, well… y’know – and then, when one person left stuff, more followed.’
‘I think the council will sort everything.’
‘It’s all for Ethan, though. Maybe I should take it back to the house?’
‘Maybe take the football stuff and leave the flowers…?’
Jo doesn’t reply. She leans into the backrest and lets her head rock back as she peers up to the blue sky. I can’t remember a stretch of good weather that’s lasted this long before.
‘I can’t believe you have a sister,’ Jo says.
‘It’s not what I expected, either.’
‘What happens now?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With your mum and your sister.’
A woman is striding along the pavement on the other side of the road. She slows and almost stops as she looks sideways towards Jo and me. When she realises we’re watching her, she turns back the way she’s heading and keeps moving. I’ve had a fair few of those glances over the past couple of days and I’d bet Jo’s had it far worse.
‘I don’t think I want to see my mum again,’ I say.
‘What about your sister?’
‘Megan,’ I say, liking the way her name sounds in my voice. It feels like she’s mine. ‘I think we’re going to be great friends.’
‘Does she think that too?’
‘I think so.’ I pause, picturing her youthful face; knowing she’s a better version of me. ‘I hope so.’
There’s another game of football going on across the park, with all the sound of joy and competition that goes with it.
‘I already knew about Mark and Holly,’ Jo says. ‘I didn’t care. I was waiting for Holly to say something, but she never did. We were supposed to be best friends.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I’m not sure. It was more of a feeling. She said his name once and it was all there. Sometimes it only takes one word.’
‘Sometimes not even that.’
Jo doesn’t reply to that.
We sit and we listen to Elwood doing what it does. It’s so quiet compared to a city and yet that’s a soundtrack on its own. I hate it – but, wherever I go next, this will always be home.
‘You’ve not told me what Mark did to you in front of her…?’
It’s a question that’s not a question. Jo saw the darkness in her ex-husband long before I got to.
‘Not much,’ I say – although the scrapes above my eyes and around the back of my head tell a different story. I don’t think I ever accepted how dangerous things were in Holly’s kitchen. I was scared – but I’ve been scared before. I’ve been at the feet of worse men in the past – and I’m still here.
‘It sounds like the police got there just in time…?’
‘That’s true.’
‘Megan…?’
Just the sound of her name makes my heart quicken a little. Being alone is a state of mind that’s impossible to explain to people who are in relationships or who have had brothers or sisters their whole lives. It’s something that runs deep into a person’s soul, far beyond any sort of conscious thought. I’ve felt like that forever and now, suddenly, that darkness has gone.
‘Megan,’ I confirm. ‘When I set off to Holly’s, I told her to give it fifteen minutes and then call Sergeant Davidson directly to tell him what was on the SD card.’
‘Why didn’t you call him yourself?’
‘I think I wanted to hear what she had to say. I wanted to give Rob a chance to hand himself in. I don’t think it would have been covered up if he’d been by himself. You didn’t see his face in the video. He was terrified. He was going to hand himself in until Holly stopped him. She made him leave town.’
It’s only saying it out loud that I realise how it sounds.
‘Sorry,’ I add. ‘I should’ve
thought of Ethan and gone to the police.’
Jo rests a hand on my knee for a moment and then removes it. ‘I think you did the right thing,’ she says. ‘If it was Owen, I’d have wanted the chance for him to go to the police himself.’
I push back into the bench and stare up towards the blue until stars start to swarm. There’s a part of me that could live in this town and never want to leave. I love it and I hate it.
‘What do you think will happen to him?’ Jo says.
‘Who?’
‘Rob. He’s… I don’t know. I was going to say he’s a good kid, but…’
She shifts her weight and, though I keep looking at the sky, I can tell she’s looking towards the flowers at our side.
‘Did you see the news this morning?’ I ask.
‘No. I was at the hospital.’
‘He’s already been charged with driving without due care, plus failing to stop at the scene. I don’t know after that. People are pretty angry.’
‘What about Mark?’
‘Kidnapping charges, which Davidson said might change into something more relating to assault. He said they go with the most serious thing they can realistically charge at the beginning because it’s easier to revise down than revise up.’
‘Kidnapping…’ Jo repeats the word and I know what she means. The very sound of it creates images of children being bundled into a van by a stranger. It literally has ‘kid’ at the beginning. Mark did stop me leaving Holly’s kitchen, but I don’t know if that means anything. I find myself running a finger across the scratch that’s embedded along my hairline. It might well turn into another scar for the collection.
‘What do you think should happen to him?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know…’ There’s a pause and then, ‘He’s Ethan and Owen’s dad, but they’ll lock him up, I guess. They probably should.’
‘What about Rob?’
Jo sighs and then reaches across and takes my hand. I look down from the sky and close my eyes as the stars continue to swarm on the back of my eyelids.
The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 25