Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood
to me?
Hannah, who is looking at me a little uncertainly now, says, ‘We’re going on holiday. Catching an early flight to Paris.’
She is now joined by an older woman, who looks like the horsier, wider, version of Hannah in about thirty years’ time. The blonde-haired, Barbour-jacketed woman is smiling broadly at me. I picture myself climbing into the back of some huge SUV and being cradled by it all the way to the police station. The decision is taken from my hands.
‘Oh, are you the famous Mrs Bailey?’ she says in a loud voice. ‘I believe we have you to thank for Hannah’s A star last year, don’t we, Hannah?’ Her voice seems to thunder in my ears.
Hannah grins and nods enthusiastically.
‘Hannah is at Warwick now,’ says her mother, ‘and she’s having a great time, aren’t you, darling?’
‘I’m having the best time,’ says Hannah, drawling the word ‘best’.
I’m nodding along and trying to smile but I can’t think of a single word in response. What can I say? ‘Lovely to see you, only, I have a hostage situation back at my house and a tiny baby might be in danger. Bye then!’ Normal etiquette seems to have entirely abandoned me. Being with two unhinged misfits all night has somehow robbed me of my own manners.
Both of the other women are looking at me oddly now, clearly expecting a response. Casting about inside myself, I finally find something to toss back at them.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I say. ‘That’s absolutely wonderful to hear. And a holiday! In Provence!’ I realize straight away I’ve said the wrong place, but they are too polite to correct me. When a sufficient number of seconds have passed, I say, ‘Well, I’d best …’ but Hannah is holding onto my arm again, blushing slightly.
‘I just want to say that I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss. You really helped me through … well, you know.’
I stare back blankly and a strange expression passes over Hannah’s face, a kind of disappointed horror. Then it comes to me and I feel sick for forgetting.
Hannah’s dad died at the beginning of Year Thirteen and for a while the talented student had, understandably, lost her focus. I lost my own mum in my teens and so I just got it. I spent a lot of time talking to Hannah after lessons and gently encouraging her not to throw away her opportunities.
‘God, yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry, I—’
From nowhere, tears bead my eyelids. I try to blink them away, but the two people in front of me fracture into a watery blur. The memory of Hannah’s distress, coupled with the heartfelt thanks, are more than my bruised emotions can handle right now.
‘Are you alright?’ says Hannah’s mother. She must now notice the nappies bulging in the thin carrier bag because she bursts out with, ‘You’ve not had … a baby?’
This is it. This is the moment to tell them.
But I can’t do it. I can’t risk harm coming to that innocent child because I’m not brave or strong enough to help him. I’m all that little boy has right now. I take a small breath in before speaking again.
‘No, dear me, no!’ My attempt to sound chirpy and friendly comes across as shrill and deranged now. ‘But my, er … my … friend is staying. In fact, I’d better get back! It’s been so good to see you, Hannah! And you too, Mrs …’ but it’s no good, the surname has gone again, ‘and you too.’
I hurry across the forecourt before either of them have the chance to detain me any longer, feeling their curious eyes on me as I go. They must be wondering where the hell my car is too.
I know I’ve come across as a total fruitcake, but I have no time to worry about that now. Two damaged, possibly violent people are currently in charge of a tiny, innocent life. At their very best, they are rough and incompetent, even if they aren’t about to inflict any deliberate damage. Heaven knows how they are coping with the screaming, which must surely be getting worse as hunger bites deeper. All the very worst stories about child cruelty on the news tickertape through my mind now; babies with burns, babies with tiny broken limbs, babies in bins …
I start to run.
My breath is tight in my chest and my skin bathed in sweat in the muggy air as I get to the roundabout and negotiate my way back to Four Hays. Carl bobs into my head and I picture him running alongside me with precise, economic strides. It does not help.
And now my stupid, stupid brain is unhelpfully filing another thought: Ian jogging alongside Sam the first time Sam rode his bike without stabilizers at the bottom of this road. Why think of that now, for God’s sake? But I can see it so clearly; the pale pink blossom from the apple tree in our garden blowing in the breeze like confetti, Sam’s delighted shrieks of, ‘Look at me! Look at me, Daddy!’ The shared look of love between Ian and me. The memory has a honeyed, golden glow. It’s pleasure and pain all mixed together and I cling to it as I slow down.
My knees ache and I can’t get my breath, so I stop and walk; small, panicked sobs punctuating my gasps as I struggle to fill my unfit lungs with air.
It feels like someone has played a terrible joke and made my road, so familiar I notice the tiniest change in vegetation over the seasons, twice as long as usual. But at last I see the lights of my home and force a last surge of energy to get myself to the back door, where I hammer the flat of my hand against the wood, almost doubled-over with exhaustion.
The door flies open and Angel stands there, looking down at me.
‘Took your time,’ she snaps, eyes flashing with fury.
The first thing I notice when I come inside is that the baby has stopped crying. Is this a good thing or very bad indeed? The radio that lives by the sink is playing some sort of generic pop.
Lucas is not in the kitchen. I see the baby lying on the makeshift mat on the table, fast asleep, arms at right angles by his head. His tiny ribcage is rising and sucking inwards in that speeded-up way of the very young. It unnerved us so much when Ian and I were new parents.
Suddenly wrung out, I place the milk and nappies onto one of the kitchen surfaces. Then I lean my hands against the cool granite and try to catch my breath.
‘Why were you so long?’ Angel’s voice is whingey, behind me. ‘You were fucking ages. We were starting to think …’
‘I’m sorry, but there was a queue and then …’ I pause, ‘it just took longer than I expected, that’s all.’ I had been this close to saying I’d run into someone I know, but I’m sure that would be a mistake. I must try and appear calm in the hope that they will follow my lead and not do anything stupid.
‘Well, it felt like forever.’ Angel’s voice is quiet. ‘We had to put the radio on to stop it screaming. Thought you were never coming back.’
This seems to be entirely at odds with the calm scene before me and I shoot a look at her. But her head is down again, eyes plugged into the screen of her phone.
It looks as though Angel has been raiding the fridge in my absence, judging by the mess of bread, cheese, houmous and ham at the other end of the table. A knife has fallen out of the houmous and left a slick smear on the surface.
Angel licks her fingers and stares back at me.
I turn away, realizing I will have to sterilize the bottle all over again to feed the baby. I’d forgotten what a faff it is, feeding infants. But thank God for the milk.
I go to the kettle and switch it on. It’s all so long ago, when I could do this stuff in my sleep. More or less